A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA 


BUI*.  UWURY.  LOi 


With  Annette  limp  across  his  saddle,  Casim  Ammeh  sped  away. 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA 


BY 
LOUISE  GERARD 


With  Illustrations  from  the  Photo-Play 
"A  FIRST  NATIONAL  ATTRACTION" 

Produced  by  EDWIN  CAREWE, 
Featuring  BERT  LYTELL  AND  CLAIRE  WINDSOR 


NEW  YORK 
THE  MACAULAY  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT.  1922, 

BY  THE  MACAULAY  COMPANY 


PRINTED  IN  THE  U.  S.  A. 


TO 

MY  FRIEND 

DOROTHEA  THORNTON  CLARKE 

WITHOUT  WHOSE  HELP  AND  CONSTANT  ENCOURAGEMENT 

NEITHER  THIS  NOR  ANT  OF  MY  BOOKS 

WOULD  HAVE  BEEN  WRITTEN 


2129727 


PREFACE 

A  beach  of  white  sand,  the  whisper  of  palms  answering 
the  murmuring  moonlit  eea,  the  fragrance  of  orange  blos- 
soms, the  perfume  of  roses  and  syringa, — that  is  Grand 
Canary,  a  bit  of  Heaven  dropped  into  the  Atlantic ;  overlooked 
by  writers  and  painters  in  general.  Surely  one  can  be  par- 
doned a  bit  of  praise  and  promise  for  this  story,  laid,  as  it  is 
in  part,  in  that  magic  island. 

The  Canaries  properly  belong  to  the  African  continent. 
That  is  best  proven  by  their  original  inhabitants  who  were  of 
pure  Berber  stock.  The  islands  are  the  stepping  stone  be- 
tween Europe  and  the  Sahara.  Mysterious  Arabs  and  a  con- 
tinual stream  of  those  silent  men  who  come  and  go  from  the 
great  desert  tarry  there  for  a  while,  giving  color  and  romance 
to  the  big  hotels. 

The  petty  gossip,  the  real  news  of  the  Sahara  '^breaks" 
there. — Weird,  passionate  tales;  believable  or  not,  they  carry 
an  undercurrent  of  reality  that  thrills. 

From  such  a  source  came  this  story.  Unaltered  in  fact, 
it  is  given  to  you,  the  life  story  of  a  man  and  a  woman  who 
turned  their  backs  on  worldly  conventions  that  they  might 
find  happiness.  If  it  is  frank,  forgive  it.  Life  near  the 
Equator  is  not  a  milk  and  water  affair. 

THE  PUBLISHERS. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

PART      I 3 

PART    II 44 

PART  III  ....  147 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

With  Annette  limp   across   his   saddle,   Casim  Ammeh 
sped  away Frontispiece 

MM 

He  had  come  to  the  harem  to  say  farewell     .      .      .      .       48 

For   sale   as   a   common   slave   at  the   Taureg   auction 
block 200 

"Let  us  both  dance  for  you,  so  that  you  may  judge  be- 
tween us"  .     241 


PARTI 


A  Son  of  the  Sahara 


CHAPTEK  I 

IN  the  days  when  France  was  pursuing  a  vigorous  forward 
policy  in  Africa,  a  policy  started  by  General  Faidherbe 
and  carried  on  by  subsequent  governors,  one  of  the  bravest 
among  her  pioneer  soldiers  was  Colonel  Eaoul  Le  Breton. 

He  was  a  big,  handsome  man  with  a  swarthy  complexion, 
coal-black  hair  and  dark,  fiery  eyes,  by  nature  impetuous 
and  reckless.  With  a  trio  of  white  sergeants  and  a  hundred 
Senegalese  soldiers,  he  would  attempt — and  accomplish — 
things  that  no  man  with  ten  times  his  following  would  have 
attempted. 

But  there  came  a  day  when  even  his  luck  failed. 

He  left  St.  Louis,  in  Senegal,  and  went  upwards  to  the 
north-east,  intending  to  pierce  the  heart  of  the  Sahara. 
From  that  expedition,  however,  he  never  returned.  The 
Government  at  St.  Louis  assumed  that  he  and  his  little 
pioneer  force  had  been  wiped  out  by  some  hostile  negro 
king  or  Arab  chief.  It  was  but  one  of  the  tragedies  attached 
to  extending  a  nation's  territory. 

When  Eaoul  Le  Breton  went  on  that  ill-fated  expedition, 
he  did  what  no  man  should  have  done  who  attempts  to 
explore  the  Back  of  Beyond  with  an  indifferent  force. 

He  took  his  wife  with  him. 

There  was  some  excuse  for  this  piece  of  folly.  He  was 
newly  married.  He  adored  his  wife,  and  she  worshipped 
him,  and  refused  to  let  him  go  unless  she  went  also. 

She  was  barely  half  his  age;  a  girl  just  fresh  from  a 
convent  school,  whom  he  had  met  and  married  in  Paris 
during  his  last  leave. 

3 


4  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA 

Colonel  Le  Breton  journeyed  for  weeks  through  an  arid 
country,  an  almost  trackless  expanse  of  poor  grass  and 
stunted  scrub,  until  he  reached  the  edge  of  the  Sahara. 

Annette  Le  Breton  enjoyed  her  travels.  She  did  not 
mind  the  life  in  tents,  the  rough  jolting  of  her  camel,  the 
poor  food,  the  heat,  the  flies;  she  minded  nothing  so  long 
as  she  was  with  her  husband.  He  was  a  man  of  rare  fascina- 
tion, as  many  women  had  found  to  their  cost;  a  light  lover 
until  Annette  had  come  into  his  life  and  captured  his  straying 
heart  once  and  for  all. 

On  the  edge  of  the  Sahara  Le  Breton  met  a  man  who, 
on  the  surface  at  least,  appeared  to  see  even  more  quickly 
than  the  majority  of  negro  kings  and  Arab  chiefs  he  had 
come  in  contact  with,  the  advantages  attached  to  being 
under  the  shadow  of  the  French  flag. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  say  where  the  Sultan  Casim 
Ammeh  came  from.  He  appeared  one  afternoon  riding 
like  a  madman  out  of  the  blazing  distance;  a  picturesque 
figure  in  his  flowing  white  burnoose,  sitting  his  black 
stallion  like  a  centaur. 

He  was  a  young  man,  perhaps  about  twenty-four,  of 
medium  height,  lean  and  lithe  and  brown,  with  fierce  black 
eyes  and  a  cruel  mouth:  the  hereditary  ruler  of  that  por- 
tion of  the  Sahara.  His  capital  was  a  walled  city  that,  so 
far,  had  not  been  visited  by  any  European.  In  his  way  he 
was  a  man  of  great  wealth,  and  he  added  to  that  wealth  by 
frequent  marauding  expeditions  and  slave-dealing. 

With  a  slight  smile  he  listened  to  all  the  Frenchman  had 
to  say.  Already  he  had  heard  of  France — a  great  Power, 
creeping  slowly  onwards — and  he  wondered  whether  he  was 
strong  enough  to  oppose  it,  or  whether  the  wiser  plan  might 
not  be  just  to  rest  secure  under  the  shadow  of  its  distant 
wing,  and  under  its  protection  continue  his  wild,  maraud- 
ing life  as  usual. 

As  he  sat  with  Colonel  Le  Breton  in  the  latter's  tent, 
something  happened  which  caused  the  Sultan  Casim  Ammeh 
to  make  up  his  mind  very  quickly. 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAEA  5 

It  was  late  afternoon.  Prom  the  open  flap  of  the  tent 
an  endless,  rolling  expense  of  sand  showed,  with  here  and 
there  a  knot  of  coarse,  twisted  grass,  a  dwarfed  shrub,  or  a 
flare  of  red-flowered,  distorted  cacti.  The  French  officer's 
camp  was  pitched  by  an  oasis;  a  little  group  of  date  palms, 
where  a  spring  bubbled  among  brown  rocks,  bringing  an 
abundance  of  grass  and  herbs  where  horses  and  camels 
browsed. 

As  the  two  men  sat  talking,  a  soft  voice  said  unex- 
pectedly : 

"Oh,  Raoul,  I'd  no  idea  you  had  a  visitor  1" 

All  at  once  a  girl  had  appeared  in  the  entrance  of  the  tent 
She  was  small  and  slim,  with  two  thick  plaits  of  golden- 
brown  hair  reaching  to  her  knees;  a  beautiful  girl  of  about 
eighteen,  with  wide  grey  eyes  and  a  creamy  white  ekin. 

Her  voice  brought  Le  Breton  to  his  feet. 

"What  is  it,  Annette?"  he  asked. 

"I  thought I'll  come  later/'  she  said,  the  blushes 

mounting  to  her  cheeks. 

The  Sultan  Casim  Ammeh  got  to  his  feet  also.  Not  out 
of  any  sense  of  deference;  he  had  none  where  women  were 
concerned,  but  drawn  there  by  the  beauty  of  the  girl. 

"You  needn't  mind  what  you  say  in  front  of  this  man," 
her  husband  remarked.  "He  doesn't  understand  a  word 
of  French. 

"Ill  tell  you  later,  Raoul,  when  there's  nobody  here." 
She  would  have  gone,  but  Le  Breton  called  her  forward 
and,  in  Arabic,  introduced  her  to  his  visitor. 

Annette  bowed  to  the  lean,  lithe,  brown  man  in  the  white 
burnoose,  and  her  eyes  dropped  under  the  fierce  admiration 
in  his. 

The  Sultan  looked  at  her,  all  the  time  wondering  why 
the  white  man  was  such  a  fool  as  to  lot  this  priceless  pearl, 
this  jewel  among  women,  go  unveiled,  and  allow  the 
eyes  of  strange  men  to  rest  upon  her  with  desire  and  long- 
ing. 

Annette  said  she  was  pleased  to  meet  him :  a  message  her 


6  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA 

husband  translated,  and  which  brought  a  fierce  smile  to  the 
young  Sultan's  face  and  made  the  wild  desire  in  his  savage 
heart  suddenly  blossom  into  plans. 

So  she,  this  houri  from  Paradise,  was  pleased  to  meet  him ! 
This  fair  flower  from  a  far  land!  But  not  so  pleased  as 
he  was  to  meet  her. 

And  her  husband  let  her  say  such  things  to  strange  men ! 
What  a  fool  the  man  was!  Not  worthy  of  this  houri! 
He  could  not  appreciate  the  treasure  he  possessed.  Not  as 
he,  the  Sultan,  would,  were  she  his. 

Casim  Ammeh  despised  Colonel  Le  Breton  utterly. 

As  soon  as  the  introduction  was  orer,  Annette  would  have 
gone. 

"Don't  run  away,  my  pet,"  her  husband  said  fondly.  "I 
shall  soon  have  finished." 

But  the  girl  went,  anxious  to  get  away  from  the  Arab 
chief  who  watched  her  with  such  covetous  desire  and 
smouldering  passion  in  his  fierce  black  eyes. 

When  she  had  gone,  the  two  men  seated  themselves  again. 
But  the  Sultan  gave  no  thought  to  the  business  in  hand. 
He  only  wanted  one  thing  now — the  girl  who  had  just  gone 
from  the  tent. 

Soon  after  Annette's  departure  he  left,  promising  to  visit 
Le  Breton  again  within  the  course  of  a  few  days. 

He  kept  his  word. 

Five  days  later  he  swept  out  of  the  desert  with  a  horde  of 
wild  horsemen.  And  in  less  than  half  an  hour  there  was 
only  one  of  Raoul  Le  Breton's  ill-fated  expedition  left  alive. 

The  next  day,  with  Annette  limp  across  his  saddle,  the 
Sultan  Casim  Ammeh  set  off  with  his  following  to  his  desert 
stronghold. 


CHAPTER  II 

THB  city  of  El-Ammeh  lies  about  a  hundred  miles  witMn 
the  Sahara  proper.  It  is  a  walled  town  of  Moorish  aspecfe 
built  of  brown  rock  and  baked  mud.  Within  the  walla  is  a 
tangle  of  narrow,  twisted,  squalid  lanes — a  jumble  of  fiat- 
roofed  houses,  practically  devoid  of  windows  oa  the  sides 
overlooking  the  streets.  Here  and  there  a  minaret  towers, 
and  glimpses  of  strange  trees  can  be  seen  peeping  over  walled 
gardens. 

Along  one  side  stands  a  domed  palace ;  a  straggling  plaee, 
with  horse-shoe  arches,  stone  galleries  and  terraces.  In 
front  of  it  a  blue  lake  spreads,  surrounded  by  fertile  gardens 
and  groves  of  fruit  trees.  And  the  whole  is  encircled  by  tbre 
desert. 

Annette  Le  Breton  remembered  nothing  of  her  journey 
to  El-Ammeh.  Her  life  was  a  nightmare  of  horror  that 
held  nothing  but  her  husband's  murderer,  whom  she  could 
not  escape  from.  She  was  taken  to  the  palace,  and  placed 
in  the  apartment  reserved  for  the  Sultan's  favourite.  A  big 
room  with  walls  and  floor  of  gold  mosaic,  furnished  with 
ottomans,  rugs  and  cushions,  and  little  tables  and  stools  of 
carved  sandalwood  inlaid  with  ivory  and  silver. 

On  one  side  of  the  apartment  a  series  of  archwByB 
opened  on  a  screened  and  fretted  gallery,  at  the  end  of 
which  a  flight  of  wide,  shallow  steps  led  down  into  a  walled 
garden,  a  dream  of  roses. 

But  it  was  weeks  before  Annette  knew  anything  of  this. 

All  day  long  she  lay,  broken  and  suffering,  on  one  of  the 
ottomans,  and  dark-faced  women  fawned  upon  her,  saying 
words  she  could  not  understand;  women  who  looked  at  her 
queerly,  jealously,  and  talked  about  her  among  themselves. 

A  strange  girl,  this  new  fancy  of  the  Sultan's  \  Who 

7 


8  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA 

wanted  none  of  the  things  he  piled  upon  her — not  even  his 
love.  A  girl  who  looked  as  though  life  were  a  mirage ;  as  if 
she  mo,ved  in  bad  dreams, — a  listless  girl,  beautiful  beyond 
any  yet  seen  in  the  harem,  who  seemed  to  have  neither  idea 
nor  appreciation  of  the  honour  that  was  hers;  who  lay  all 
day  in  silence,  her  only  language  tears.  Tears  that  even 
the  Sultan  could  not  charm,  away. 

In  fact  they  seemed  to  fall  more  quickly  and  hopelessly 
when  he  came  to  see  her. 

Yet  he  did  everything  that  mortal  man  could  do  to  -com- 
fort her. 

Jewels  were  showered  upon  her;  jewels  she  refused  to 
wear,  to  look  at  even;  casting  them  from  her  with  weak, 
angry  hands,  when  her  women  would  have  decked  her  with 
them  for  her  master's  coming. 

And  never  before  were  so  many  musicians,  singers,  dan- 
cers, and  conjurors  sent  to  the  women's  apartments.  Hardly 
a  day  passed  without  bringing  some  such  form  of  diversion ;  or 
merchants  with  rare  silks,  perfumes  and  ostrich  feathers. 
The  harem  bad  never  had  such  a  perpetual  round  of  amuse- 
monts. 

All  for  this  new  slave-girl.  And  she  refused  to  be  either 
amused  or  interested.  She  would  look  neither  at  the  goods 
nor  the  entertainers.  She  just  stayed  with  her  face  turned 
towards  the  wall  and  wept. 

One  day  when  the  Sultan  came  to  the  harem  to  visit  his 
new  favourite,  some  of  the  older  women  drew  him  aside  and 
whispered  with  him. 

They  suspected  they  had  found  a  reason  for  the  girl's 
strange  behaviour. 

Their  words  sent  the  Sultan  from  the  big  hall  of  the 
harem  to  the  gilded  chamber  set  aside  for  Annette,  with 
hope  in  his  savage  heart,  and  left  him  looking  down  at 
her  with  a  touch  of  tenderness  on  his  cruel  face. 

He  laid  a  dark  hand  on  the  girl,  caressing  her  fondly. 

"Give  me  a  son,  my  pearl,"  he  whispered.  "Then  my  cup 
will  be  full  indeed." 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA  9 

Annette  shuddered  at  his  touch. 

She  had  no  idea  what  he  said.  He  and  his  language  were 
beyond  her. 

As  the  long  weeks  ground  oat  their  slow  and  dreary  course, 
Annette  grew  to  suspect  what  her  attendants  now  knew. 

The  weeks  became  months  and  Annette  languished  in  her 
captor's  palace;  her  only  respite  the  times  he  was  away  on 
some  marauding  expedition.  He  loved  rapine  and  murder, 
and  was  never  happy  unless  dabbling  in  blood.  Sometimes 
he  was  away  for  weeks  together,  killing  and  stealing,  bring- 
ing slaves  for  the  slave-market  of  his  city,  and  fresh  women 
for  his  harem. 

During  one  of  his  absences  Annette's  baby  arrived. 

The  child  came  a  week  or  so  before  the  women  had  ex- 
pected it. 

"The  girl  has  wept  so  much,"  they  said,  "that  her  son 
has  come  before  his  time,  to  see  what  his  mother's  tears  are 
about.  And  now,  if  Allah  is  kind,  let  us  hope  the  child  will 
dry  them." 

For  a  fortnight  Annette  was  too  ill  to  know  even  that  she 
had  a  son. 

When  the  baby  was  brought  to  her,  she  hardly  dared  look 
at  it,  not  knowing  what  horror  might  have  come  from  those 
ghastly  nights  spent  with  the  Sultan  Casim  Ammeh. 

But  when  she  looked,  it  was  not  his  face,  dark  and  cruel, 
that  looked  back  at  her. 

In  miniature,  she  saw  the  face  of  Raoul  Le  Breton ! 

This  son  of  hers  did  not  owe  his  life  to  the  Sultan.  He 
was  a  legacy  from  her  murdered  husband.  Something  that 
belonged  to  her  lost  life. 

With  a  wild  sob  of  joy,  Annette  held  out  weak  arms  for 
her  baby.  Weeping  she  strained  the  mite  to  her  breast, 
baptizing  it  with  her  tears.  Tears  of  happiness  this  time. 

Light  and  love  had  come  into  her  life  again.  For  Raoul 
was  not  dead.  He  had  come  back  to  her.  Weak  and  tiny  he 
lay  upon  her  heart,  hers  to  love  and  cherish. 

She  was  lying  on  her  couch  one  day,  too  absorbed  in  trac- 


10  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAEA 

ing  out  each  one  of  her  dead  lover's  features  in  the  tiny  face 
pillowed  on  her  breast,  to  notice  what  was  happening,  when 
the  voice  she  dreaded  said  in  a  fierce,  fond  manner: 

"So,  Pearl  of  my  Heart,  you  love  my  son,  even  if  you 
hate  me." 

Annette  did  not  know  what  the  Sultan  said.  But  she  held 
her  child  closer,  watching  its  father's  murderer  with  fear  and 
loathing;  afraid  that  he  might  put  his  dark,  defiling  hands 
upon  her  treasure. 

But  he  did  not  attempt  to  touch  either  her  or  the  child. 

Seating  himself  at  her  side,  he  stayed  watching  her, 
tenderness  on  his  cruel  face,  for  the  first  time  having  pity 
on  her  weakness.  The  weakness  of  the  woman  who  had 
given  him  the  one  thing  his  savage  heart  craved  for,  and 
which,  until  now,  had  been  denied  him — a  son. 


CHAPTER  HI 

BY  the  time  Annette  knew  enough  Arabic  to  make  herself 
understood,  and  to  understand  what  was  said  around  her, 
she  realized  that  if  the  Sultan  learnt  her  boy  was  not  his, 
this  one  joy  of  her  tragic  life  would  be  taken  from  her. 
He  would  murder  the  son  as  he  had  murdered  the  father. 

As  the  baby  grew,  her  one  idea  was  to  keep  its  true 
parentage  from  her  savage  captor.  If  she  could  have  done 
so,  she  would  have  kept  his  dark,  blood-stained  hands 
from  touching  her  son.  But  this  was  impossible.  When 
in  El-Ammeh,  the  Sultan  came  every  day  to  see  the  child, 
often  sitting  with  it  in  his  arms,  watching  it  with  an  air  of 
proud  possession. 

And  fearsomely  Annette  would  watch  him,  wondering 
why  he  never  suspected.  But  he  was  too  eaten  up  with  his 
own  desire  for  a  son  ever  to  give  a  thought  to  her  dead 
husband. 

The  baby  was  given  the  name  of  Casim  Ammeh.  But 
Annette  always  called  her  boy  by  another  name,  <rRaoul 
Le  Breton." 

And  at  the  age  of  five  he  said  to  her: 

"Why  do  you  always  call  me  *Eaoul/  not  'Casim/  as  my 
father  does?" 

His  father! 

Annette's  heart  ached.  His  father  had  been  dead  these 
long  years,  murdered  by  the  man  her  son  now  called  by 
that  name. 

'The  Sultan  and  myself  are  of  different  races,"  she  said. 
"He  calls  you  by  his  name.  I,  by  one  of  my  own  choosing, 
Ttaoul  Le  Breton/" 

<rWhy  do  you  always  say  the  Sultan/  and  never  'your 
father*?" 

11 


12  A  SON  OP  THE  SAHARA 

Sadly  she  smiled  at  her  small  questioner. 

"Some  day,  my  son,  I'll  tell  you.  When  you  are  a  man 
and  understand  things." 

At  fire,  Raoul  Le  Breton  was  a  big,  handsome 
boy,  spoilt  and  pampered  by  the  whole  harem,  and  spoilt 
most  of  all  by  the  man  he  proudly  called  "Father." 

The  Sultan  in  his  flowing  white  robes,  with  his  half-tamed 
horses,  his  horde  of  wild  followers  and  barbaric  splendour, 
was  a  picturesque  figure,  one  to  capture  any  brave  boy's 
heart. 

Annette  did  all  she  could  to  counteract  her  captor's  in- 
fluence, but,  as  the  child  grew,  he  was  more  with  the  Sultan 
than  with  her.  What  was  more,  he  craved  for  men's 
company. 

He  soon  tired  of  the  amusements  the  harem  could  offer. 
He  much  preferred  to  be  on  his  own  horse,  galloping  with 
the  Sultan  or  some  of  his  men  along  the  desert 
tracks  about  the  city.  And  knowing  Annette  loved  her 
son,  and  hated  him,  despite  their  years  together,  the  Sultan 
did  all  he  could  to  win  the  boy's  affection  and  wean  him 
from  his  mother. 

He  might  have  succeeded,  except  for  one  thing.  The 
boy  loved  learning,  and  to  hear  of  the  great  world  that  his 
mother  came  from;  a  world  that  seemed  as  remote  from 
El-Ammeh  as  the  paradise  his  Moslem  teachers  spoke  of. 

The  Sultan  was  not  averse  to  the  mother  teaching  her 
son.  He  was  a  shrewd  man,  if  savage  and  cruel.  And  that 
Prance  from  where  the  girl  came  was  growing  ever  more 
powerful.  It  would  be  to  the  boy's  advantage  to  learn  all 
the  arts  and  cunning  of  his  mother's  people. 

The  Sultan  Casim  gave  Annette  but  one  present  that  she 
took  from  him  willingly;  a  sandalwood  bureau  with  shelves 
and  drawers  and  little  sliding  panels,  an  elaborately  carved 
and  handsome  piece  of  furniture;  stocked  with  slate  and 
pencil,  paper,  quills  and  ink — such  as  the  priests  at  the 
moequee  used  themselves.  For  this  strange  girl  who  hated 


13 

him  had  more  learning  than  all  the  priests  put  together. 

But,  for  all  that,  the  youngster  had  to  sit  at  their  feet 
at  appointed  times,  and  be  taught  all  the  Sultan  had  ever 
been  taught,  to  read  and  write,  and  recite  scraps  from  the 
Koran,  and  to  be  a  true  Moslem. 

Annette  hated  this  wild,  profligate  religion,  and  into  her 
son  she  tried  to  instil  her  own  Roman  Catholic  faith. 

But  at  eight  years,  although  he  learnt  with  avidity 
all  her  other  teachings,  he  laughed  at  her  religion. 

"Yours  is  a  woman's  religion,  little  mother,"  he  said 
one  day.  "It's  all  right  for  you — a  religion  that  prays  to 
a  woman,  but  it  is  not  suitable  for  men.  Give  me  my 
father's  religion.  A  religion  where  men  rule.  In  that, 
one  does  not  bow  the  knee  to  a  woman.  A  good  religion, 
my  father's,  fierce  and  strong,  of  love  and  fighting,  not  a 
puling  thing  where  one  prays  to  a  woman  and  a  babe. 
No,  little  mother,  keep  your  religion,  and  be  happy  with  it. 
I  prefer  my  father's  and  my  own." 

"Eaoul,  my  son,  you  mustn't  forget  the  white  side  when 
you  are  with  the  Sultan,"  she  said  gently,  a  touch  of  chid- 
ing in  her  sad  voice. 

The  boy  looked  at  her  speculatively,  knowing  already 
that  his  mother  had  no  affection  for  the  man  he  called 
"father." 

"You  should  be  proud,  not  sorry,  to  be  the  Sultan's 
wife,"  he  remarked.  "It  is  an  honour  for  any  woman  to 
be  loved  by  the  Sultan.  Even  a  woman  as  lovely  and  learned 
as  you,  little  mother." 

At  twenty-seven  Annette  was  even  more  beautiful  than 
on  the  day  the  Sultan  Casim  Ammeh  first  saw  her;  but 
more  fragile  and  ethereal.  Although  her  captor's  fancy 
often  strayed  to  other  women,  he  never  lost  his  passion 
for  her. 

"Oh,  my  boy,  you  don't  understand,"  she  said  sadly. 
"When  you  are  a  man  I'll  tell  you,  and  then  perhaps  you'll 
think  differently." 


14  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA 

"When  I  am  a  man,  I  shall  be  like  my  father,  but  richer 
and  more  powerful,  because  I  shall  have  more  knowledge, 
thanks  to  you,  my  mother." 

"I  hope  you  will  be  like  your  father,  Raoul,  I  ask  for 
nothing  better." 

When  her  boy  reached  manhood  Annette  intended  to  tell 
him  the  truth,  and  to  leave  him  to  deal  with  the  situation 
as  he  would. 

At  ten  years,  her  son  had  as  much  general  knowledge 
as  the  average  French  boy  of  his  age,  thanks  to  his  mother's 
teachings.  And  he  knew,  too,  a  great  deal  more  than  she 
taught  him. 

He  was  a  big  lad  for  his  years,  handsome  and  quick- 
tempered, the  Sultan's  acknowledged  heir.  On  every  side 
there  were  people  anxious  to  spoil  him  and  curry  favour 
with  him.  In  the  scented,  sensual  atmosphere  of  the  harem, 
he  learnt  things  his  mother  would  have  kept  from  him. 
But  she  was  powerless  among  so  many,  all  ready  to  flatter 
her  boy  and  gain  his  good  graces. 

"When  I  grow  up,"  he  said  to  her  one  day,  "I  shall  have 
a  hundred  wives,  like  my  father." 

"In  the  France  I  come  from  a  man  has  but  one.  Yon 
must  always  remember  that,  Raoul." 

"Only  one!  Then,  mother,  I  call  that  a  poor  country. 
How  can  a  man  be  satisfied  with  one  woman?  My  father 
has  promised  me  wives  of  my  own  when  I  am  sixteen." 

It  seemed  to  Annette  that  in  this  profligate  atmosphere 
her  boy  was  drifting  further  and  further  away  from  her 
and  his  own  nation;  becoming  daily  more  akin  to  the 
barbaric  people  around  him. 

Every  day  she  felt  she  must  tell  him  the  truth.  Yet 
every  day  she  put  it  off.  For  her  boy  was  only  a  child 
still,  and  in  his  anger  and  rage  he  would  not  be  able  to 
keep  his  knowledge  from  the  Sultan;  then  evil  would  befall 
him. 

It  was  written  that  many  years  were  to  pass  before  Raoul 
Le  Breton  learnt  the  truth  about  himself. 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAEA  15 

Soon  after  this  episode  the  Sultan  took  the  boy  with  him 
on  some  thieving  expedition. 

Whilst  they  were  away,  one  of  the  deadly  epidemics 
that  occasionally  visited  El- Am m eh  swept  through  the 
city,  claiming  among  its  many  victims  Annette  Le  Breton. 


CHAPTEE  IV 

WITH  the  passing  years,  the  Sultan  Casim  Ammeh  increased 
in  wealth  and  power.  He  gave  very  little  thought  to  France 
now.  It  was  a  vague  power,  too  far  away  to  trouble  him, 
and  only  once  had  it  really  sent  a  feeler  in  his  direction; 
that  ill-fated  expedition  headed  by  Colonel  Le  Breton. 

Emboldened  by  his  success,  he  had  extended  his  maraud- 
ing. But,  if  he  heard  nothing  more  of  France,  France 
occasionally  heard  of  him,  in  the  form  of  complaints  from 
various  parts  of  the  Protectorate,  from  other  chiefs  whose 
territory  he  had  raided.  The  Government  knew  his  name 
but  it  had  no  idea  where  he  came  from. 

On  one  occasion  the  Sultan  and  his  robber  horde  swept 
down  to  within  a  hundred  miles  of  St.  Louis.  But  there  he 
met  with  a  severe  defeat.  He  retired  to  his  desert  strong- 
hold, deciding  not  to  adventure  in  that  direction  again.  And 
he  owed  his  defeat  to  strange  guns  such  as  had  not  come 
into  his  life  before.  Guns  that  fired  not  a  couple  of  shots, 
but  a  whole  volley;  an  endless  fusillade  that  even  his  wild 
warriors  could  not  face. 

He  went  back  to  El-Ammeh  determined  to  get  hold  of 
some  of  those  wonderful  guns. 

Obviously  it  was  out  of  the  question  to  attack  St.  Louis 
where  they  came  from.  If  they  were  to  be  obtained,  they 
must  be  searched  for  in  some  other  direction. 

Sore  with  defeat,  he  brooded  on  the  strange  guns.  And 
very  often  he  talked  of  them  to  the  boy  he  called  his  son. 

Eaoul  Le  Breton  was  about  thirteen  when  the  Sultan 
met  with  his  first  rebuff  at  the  hands  of  France.  And  he 
had  the  welfare  and  prestige  of  the  desert  kingdom  at 
heart,  and  was  as  anxious  as  the  Sultan  to  possess  this 
new  weapon. 

19 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAEA  17 

Far  away  in  the  south  was  the  outpost  of  another  Euro- 
pean power;  just  a  handful  of  white  men  struggling  to  keep 
a  hold  on  a  country  an  indifferent  and  short-sighted  govern- 
ment was  inclined  to  let  slip. 

Eound  and  about  the  River  Gambia  the  British  had  a 
footing.  Among  the  men  most  determined  to  keep  a  hold 
on  this  strip  of  territory  was  Captain  George  Barclay. 

He  was  a  man  of  about  twenty-eight,  of  medium  height 
and  wiry  make,  with  a  thin  face  and  steady  grey 
eyes  where  tragedy  lurked.  His  confreres  said  that  Bar- 
clay had  no  interests  outside  of  his  work.  But  they  were 
wrong. 

He  had  one  thing  that  was  more  to  him  than  his  own  life ; 
a  tiny,  velvety-eyed,  golden-haired  daughter. 

He  had  come  out  to  North-West  Africa  in  quest  of 
forgetfulness. 

At  twenty-three,  although  he  was  only  a  penniless 
lieutenant,  the  beauty  of  the  London  season,  the  prospective 
heiress  of  millions,  had  thought  well  to  marry  him.  It  was 
a  runaway  match.  For  his  sake  Pansy  Carrington  had  risked 
losing  both  wealth  and  position.  She  was  only  nineteen, 
and  her  guardian  and  godfather,  whose  acknowledged 
heiress  she  was,  had  disapproved  of  George  Barclay;  gossip 
said  because  he  was  madly  in  love  with  her  himself,  although 
he  was  nearly  thirty  years  her  senior. 

However,  whether  this  was  so  or  not,  Henry  Langham 
had  forgiven  the  girl.  He  had  taken  her  back  into  his  good 
graces,  and,  in  due  course,  had  become  godfather  to  the 
second  Pansy.  "Grand-godfather,"  the  child  called  him  as 
soon  as  she  could  talk. 

It  had  seemed  to  George  Barclay  that  no  man's  life  could 
be  happier  than  his.  Then,  without  any  warning,  tragedy 
came  upon  him  after  five  years  of  bliss.  For  one  day  his 
girl-wife  was  brought  back  to  him  dead,  the  result  of  an 
accident  in  the  hunting-field. 

With  her  death  all  light  had  gone  out  of  his  lifa.  To 
escape  from  himself  he  had  gone  out  to  Gambia;  and  his 


18  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAEA 

tiny  daughter  now  lived,  as  her  mother  had  lived  before 
her,  with  her  godfather,  Henry  Langham. 

But  it  was  not  of  his  daughter  Barclay  was  thinking 
at  that  moment;  other  matters  occupied  his  mind. 

He  stood  on  the  roof  of  a  little  stone  fort,  gazing  at  the 
landscape  in  a  speculative  manner. 

The  building  itself  consisted  of  four  rooms,  set  on  a 
platform  of  rock  some  three  feet  from  the  ground.  All  the 
windows  were  small,  and  high  up  and  barred.  One  room 
had  no  communication  with  the  others:  it  was  a  sort  of 
guardroom  entered  by  a  heavy  wooden  door.  To  the 
other  three  rooms  one  solid  door  gave  entry,  and  from  one 
of  them  a  ladder  and  trap-door  led  up  to  the  roof  which 
had  battlements  around  it. 

Below  was  a  large  compound,  rudely  stockaded,  in  which 
half  a  dozen  native  huts  were  built. 

In  that  part  of  Gambia  Captain  Barclay  represented 
the  British  Government.  He  had  to  administer  justice 
and  keep  the  peace,  and  in  this  task  he  was  aided  by  a  white 
subaltern,  twenty  Hausa  soldiers,  and  a  couple  of  maxim 
guns. 

On  three  sides  of  the  little  British  outpost  an  endless 
expanse  of  forest  showed,  with  white  mist  curling  like 
smoke  about  it.  On  the  fourth  was  a  wide  shallow  valley, 
with  dwarf  cliffs  on  either  side,  alive  with  dog-faced  baboons. 
The  valley  was  patched  with  swamps  and  lakes,  and 
through  it  a  river  wended  an  erratic  course,  its  banks  heavily 
fringed  with  reeds  and  mimosa  trees;  a  valley  from 
which,  with  approaching  evening,  a  stream  of  miasma  rose. 
.  Barclay's  gaze,  however,  never  strayed  in  the  direction  of 
the  shallow  valley. 

He  looked  to  the  north. 

A  week  or  so  ago  word  had  come  through  that  a  notorious 
raider  was  on  the  move ;  a  man  whom  the  French  Government 
had  been  endeavouring  to  catch  for  the  last  five  years  or 
more.  What  he  was  doing  so  far  south  as  Gambia,  the 
district  officer  did  not  know.  But  he  knew  he  was  there. 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA  19 

Only  the  previous  day  news  had  come  that  one  of  the  villages 
within  his,  Barclay's,  jurisdiction  had  been  practically 
wiped  out.  A  similar  fate  might  easily  fall  to  the  lot  of 
the  British  outpost,  considering  that  the  Arab  chief's  force 
outnumbered  Barclay's  ten  to  one. 

From  the  roof  of  his  quarters  the  Englishman  saw  the 
sun  set.  It  seemed  to  sink  and  drown  in  a  lake  of  orange 
that  lay  like  a  blazing  furnace  on  the  horizon;  a  lake  that 
spread  and  scattered  when  the  sun  disappeared,  drifting 
off  in  islands  of  clouds,  gold,  rose,  mauve  and  vivid  red, 
sailing  slowly  across  a  tense  blue  sky,  getting  ever  thinner 
and  more  ragged,  until  night  came  suddenly  and  swallowed 
up  their  tattered  remains. 

A  dense,  purple  darkness  fell  upon  the  land,  soft  and 
velvety,  that  reminded  Barclay  of  his  little  daughter's  eyes. 
And  in  a  vault  as  darkly  purple,  a  host  of  great  stars  flashed. 
Away  in  the  forest  an  owl  hooted.  From  the  wide  valley 
came  the  coughing  roar  of  a  leopard.  Every  now  and  again 
some  night  bird  passed,  a  vague  shadow  in  the  darkness. 
In  silver  showers  the  fireflies  danced  in  the  thick,  hot 
air.  Down  in  the  compound  glow-worms  showed,  look- 
ing like  a  lot  of  smouldering  cigarette  ends  cast  carelessly 
aside. 

Upon  the  roof,  with  gaze  fixed  on  the  misty,  baffling 
darkness  that  soughed  and  hissed  around  him,  Barclay 
stayed,  until  the  gong  took  him  down  to  dinner. 

There  his  junior  waited,  a  round-faced  youngster  of  about 
nineteen. 

The  meal  was  a  poor  repast  of  tinned  soup,  hashed  tinned 
beef,  yams  and  coffee,  all  badly  cooked  and  indifferently 
served. 

During  the  course  of  the  meal  the  youngster  remarked: 

"What  a  joke  if  we  nabbed  the  Sultan  Casim  Ammeh, 
or  whatever  he  calls  himself,  and  went  one  better  than  the 
French  johnnies." 

"It  would  be  more  than  a  joke.  It  would  be  a  jolly  good 
riddance,"  Barclay  responded. 


20  A  SOK  OF  THE  SAHARA 

"It's  queer  nobody  knowing  where  he  really  comes 
from." 

"You  may  be  sure  he  doesn't  play  his  tricks  anywhere 
near  his  own  headquarters.  More  likely  than  not,  he  and 
his  cut-throat  lot  start  out  disguised  as  peaceful 
merchants,  in  separate  bands,  and  join  up  when  they  reach 
the  seat  of  operations.  There  are  vast  tracts  of  Senegal 
practically  unexplored.  They  would  give  endless  cover  to 
one  of  his  kidney." 

"If  you  had  the  luck  to  bag  him,  what  should  you  do?" 

"Shoot  him  straight  off,  knowing  the  earth  was  well  rid 
of  a  villain." 

"But  what's  his  idea  in  coming  as  far  south  as  this? 
He's  never  been  heard  of  on  this  side  of  the  Senegal  River 
before." 

"Plunder.  Guns,  most  likely.  'He's  heard  we're  none 
too  welcome,  and  hardly  settled  here,  and  thinks  we  shall 
prove  an  easy  prey." 

However,  the  little  English  force  was  not  to  prove 
quite  the  easy  prey  the  Sultan  had  imagined  when  he  came 
south  in  quest  of  new  weapons. 

The  next  night,  without  any  warning,  he  attacked 
Barclay's  headquarters. 

He  struck  at  an  hour  when  all  was  darkest;  not  with 
his  usual  swoop  of  wild  horsemen,  but  stealthily. 

Unchallenged  and  unmolested,  he  and  his  following  scaled 
the  stockade  and  crept  towards  the  tiny  fort,  vague  shadows 
moving  silently  in  the  purple  darkness. 

But  each  night  Barclay  had  laid  a  trap  for  Ms  expected 
foe. 

He  knew  the  enemy  force  outnumbered  his,  and  that  his 
little  handful  could  be  starved  out  within  a  week,  if  the 
Arab  chief  wanted  to  make  a  siege  of  it. 

Barclay  had  no  intention  of  letting  this  come  to  pass. 

He  did  a  bold  thing. 

Each  night,  after  dark,  the  little  British  garrison  divided 
into  three  units.  A  Hausa  sergeant  and  fifteen  men  were 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAEA  21 

left  on  the  roof  of  the  fort.  Barclay,  two  soldiers  and  one 
maxim  guu,  his  junior,  with  two  more  soldiers  and  the  other 
gun,  crept  out  from  the  place,  and  hid  in  the  dense  under- 
growth, at  different  points  outside  of  the  stockade;  first 
removing  a  plank  here  and  there  in  the  enclosure  to  enable 
them  to  work  their  guns  through. 

Barclay's  ruse  succeeded. 

Whilst  the  Sultan  and  his  followers  were  busy  trying 
to  scale  the  fort  and  get  at  the  handful  of  men  peppering 
at  them  from  its  roof,  without  any  warning  there  came 
an  unexpected  fusillade  from  the  rear.  He  turned  and  at- 
tacked in  that  direction,  only  to  find  a  further  fusillade 
pouring  in  on  him  from  another  point. 

The  Sultan  sensed  that  he  had  fallen  into  a  trap; 
that  he  was  surrounded  on  all  sides.  Sore  and  furious 
he  turned  to  go,  more  quickly  than  he  had  come.  But 
before  he  had  reached  the  stockade,  the  world  slipped  from 
him  suddenly. 


CHAPTER  V 

WHEN  the  skirmish  was  over,  Barclay  and  his  junior,  with 
half  a  dozen  Hausas  and  a  lantern  or  two,  made  a  round  of 
the  compound,  counting  the  dead  and  attending  to  the 
wounded. 

His  own  garrison  was  practically  unscathed,  but  his  guns 
had  played  grim  havoc  with  the  attacking  party;  fully 
fifty  dead  and  wounded  lay  within  the  stockade. 

Barclay  went  about  his  task  cautiously.  He  knew  Arabs 
and  their  little  ways.  Giving  no  quarter  themselves,  they 
expected  none,  and  would  sham  death  and  then  stab  those 
who  came  to  succour  them. 

Among  the  prisoners  was  a  lean,  lithe  man  of  about  forty, 
who  appeared  more  stunned  than  hurt  from  a  bullet  that 
had  grazed  his  forehead.  Barclay  came  across  the  wounded 
man  just  when  the  latter  was  coming  back  to  conscious- 
ness. Although  in  dress  he  differed  in  no  way  from  the 
rest  of  his  following,  the  knives  in  his  belt  were  heavily 
jewelled,  and  gems  flashed  on  his  brown  fingers. 

By  the  light  of  a  lantern  the  Englishman  scanned  him, 
noting  his  array  of  jewels  and  his  cruel,  arrogant,  command- 
ing face,  the  face  of  a  savage  leader. 

"My  son,"  be  said  to  the  subaltern,  "I  believe  your  joke 
has  come  to  pass." 

"My  joke !;'  the  youngster  repeated  blankly. 

Then  the  light  of  understanding  came  to  his  face. 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  this  cruel-looking  cuss  is  the 
Sultan  Casim  Ammeh!" 

"I'd  be  surprised  to  hear  he  wasn't,"  Barclay  responded. 

Suspicious  of  his  man,  and  knowing  him  to  be  no  more 
than  stunned,  the  captain  had  him  handcuffed  and  locked 
up  in  one  of  the  inner  rooms  of  the  fort. 

When  the  wounded  had  been  attended  to  they  were  left 

22 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAEA  23 

in  the  guardroom,  and  the  little  garrison  retired  once  more 
within  the  fort. 

The  enemy  had  had  such  a  thorough  beating  that  Barclay 
did  not  expect  another  attack.  For  all  that,  he  was  taking 
no  risks. 

Just  before  daybreak,  when  the  world  was  a  place  of 
curling  white  mist  and  greyness,  there  came  a  stampede  of 
horses.  And,  above  the  thunder  of  hoofs,  the  wild  Moham- 
medan war-cry. 

"Deen!    Deen  Hfuhammed!" 

That  wild  swoop  and  yell  was  the  Sultan's  usual  way  of 
attacking. 

"It  seems  we  didn't  get  our  man  last  night,"  Barclay  re- 
marked, as  the  guns  were  trained  in  the  direction  of  the 
sound.  "According  to  report,  this  is  his  usual  method  of 
attack." 

Out  of  the  greyness  of  approaching  morning  a  melee  of 
wild  horsemen  appeared.  Their  leader  was  hardly  the  man 
Barclay  had  pictured  to  himself  as  the  blood-stained  Arab 
chief,  but  a  smooth-faced  youth  in  white  burnoose,  mounted 
on  a  huge  black  stallion. 

More  than  this  Barclay  did  not  wait  to  see.  He  opened 
fire  on  the  massed  horsemen,  his  guns  playing  deadly  havoc. 
Within  a  few  minutes  their  ranks  broke.  In  wild  disorder 
they  turned  and  stampeded  back,  soon  to  be  lost  in  the 
screening  mist. 

"I  don't  think  they'll  face  another  dose/'  the  junior 
remarked. 

However,  he  was  wrong. 

Presently  from  out  of  the  fog  came  the  same  wild  war- 
cry  and  the  thunder  of  hoofs.  There  was  another  charge 
with  sadly  depleted  numbers. 

For  reckless  courage  Barclay  had  never  seen  anything  to 
equal  their  youthful  leader.  Again  and  again  he  rallied  his 
men  and  brought  them  on,  until  finally,  with  only  about  a 
dozen  men,  he  swept  through  the  deadly  zone  and  on 
towards  the  fort. 


24  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAKA 

In  the  very  teeth  of  the  Maxims  his  black  horse  literally 
flew  over  the  high  stockade.  But  the  youngster  was  the 
only  one  who  faced  the  guns.  His  following  broke  up  and 
turned  back  under  the  fierce  fusillade. 

Although  the  leader  got  over  the  stockade  alive,  his  horse 
did  not.  It  crashed  and  fell  dead  beneath  him.  With  a 
quick  side  spring — a  marvellous  piece  of  horsemanship — 
he  avoided  injury  and,  with  drawn  sword,  rushed  on  to- 
wards the  little  fort. 

The  Hausas  would  have  shot  down  the  reckless  youngster, 
but  Barclay  slopped  them. 

"We  don't  make  war  on  children,"  he  said  in  their 
dialect. 

A  closer  inspection  showed  the  leader  of  the  Arab  horde 
to  be  hardly  more  than  a  child;  a  handsome  boy  of  about 
fourteen  who,  suddenly,  realising  that  his  followers  had 
deserted  him,  now  stood  gazing  round  in  a  fierce,  thwarted 
fashion. 

On  finding  he  was  alone  he  did  not  retreat,  although 
Barclay  gave  him  every  opportunity.  Instead,  he  stood  his 
ground  and  hurled  a  challenge  in  Arabic  at  the  men  clustered 
on  the  top  of  the  fort. 

Since  there  was  no  reply  to  that,  he  shouted  again,  this 
time  in  French. 

"Who  and  what  is  the  youngster?"  Barclay  asked. 
"He  doesn't  look  any  more  Arabian  than  I  do.  And  now  he's 
yelling  at  us  in  pure  Parisian  French." 

However,  nobody  could  find  any  reply.  So  Barclay  de- 
scended alone  to  interview  the  one  remaining  member  of 
the  Sultan  Casim's  forces. 

He  was  hardly  out  in  the  compound  before  he  wished  he 
had  not  gone. 

He  had  just  time  to  draw  his  sword  when  the  boy  fell 
upon  him. 

Barclay  was  a  skilled  duellist,  but  in  this  wild  youth 
from  the  desert  he  met  his  match. 

For  all  his  finesse  and  superior  height  and  weight,  the 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA  25 

Englishman  had  his  cheek  laid  open  and  his  arm  ripped 
up  in  the  course  of  a  minute.  Things  would  have  gone 
badly  with  him,  except  that  a  shot  from  his  junior  put  the 
boy's  sword  arm  out  of  action. 

With  a  rattle  his  weapon  fell  to  the  ground,  his  arm  useless 
at  his  side. 

But,  even  then,  there  was  no  plea  for  mercy.  With  a 
proud  gesture  he  threw  up  his  head,  facing  his  enemy  in  ar- 
rogant fashion. 

"Kill  me,"  he  said  in  French,  "but  let  my  father  live." 

"Who  is  your  father?"  Barclay  asked,  as  with  a  hand- 
kerchief he  tried  to  stop  the  blood  gushing  from  his  cheek. 

"The  Sultan  Casim  Ammeh,"  the  boy  answered  proudly. 

The  reply  told  Barclay  that  the  man  he  had  under  lock 
and  key  really  was  the  marauding  Arab  chief. 

He  scanned  the  boy  closely. 

Except  for  his  coal-black  hair  and  eyes  and  fierce,  arro- 
gant expression,  there  was  no  resemblance  between  father 
and  son.  If  he  had  not  heard  to  the  contrary,  he  would 
have  said  the  boy  was  as  Frencli  as  the  language  he  spoke. 

"I've  no  intention  of  killing  you"  Barclay  remarked. 
"On  the  "ratrary,  young  man,  I'm  going  to  have  your  arm 
set  and  bound  up  before  you  bleed  to  death." 

The  blood  was  dripping  from  the  boy's  fingers,  making  a 
pool  on  the  ground.  But  he  paid  no  heed  to  his  own  hurt. 
All  his  thoughts  were  for  the  Sultan  Casim. 

"I'm  not  asking  mercy  for  myself,  but  for  my  father," 
he  said  haughtily. 

"I'm  afraid  that's  useless,  considering  two  Governments 
have  condemned  him." 

"You  will  dare  to  kill  him?" 

Barclay  said  nothing.     But  his  very  silence  was  ominous. 

A  dazed,  incredulous  look  crossed  the  boy's  face. 

As  the  Englishman  watched  him  it  seemed  that,  blood- 
stained murderer  as  the  Sultan  was,  at  least  this  big,  hand- 
some son  of  his  loved  him. 

Like  one  stunned,  the  youngster  submitted  to  being  led 


26  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHALA 

into  the  fort,  where  his  arm  was  set  and  his  wounds 
bound  up. 

When  this  was  done  he  said  to  Barclay: 

"I'll  give  you  wealth  in  jewels  that  will  amount  to  three 
hundred  thousand  francs  in  French  money  if  you  will  let 
my  father  go  free  and  take  my  life  instead." 

Barclay  made  no  reply. 

"You  will  murder  my  father?"  the  boy  went  on,  dread- 
ing the  worst  from  Barclay's  silence. 

The  word  made  the  Englishman  wince.  For  it  did  seem 
like  murder  with  this  fierce,  handsome  boy  pleading  des- 
perately for  his  father's  life. 

Again  he  said  nothing. 

To  escape  from  the  sight  of  the  pain  and  anguish  his 
silent  verdict  had  aroused,  Barclay  went  from  the  room, 
leaving  the  youngster  in  the  charge  of  a  couple  of  soldiers. 

About  noon  that  day,  at  the  hands  of  the  British  Govern- 
ment, the  Sultan  Casim  Ammeh  met  a  well-deserved  end. 
He  met  it  bravely,  (refusing  to  be  blindfolded),  with  a  slight, 
cruel  smile  facing  the  guns  levelled  at  him. 

It  was  evening  before  Barclay  summoned  up  enough 
courage  to  meet  his  youthful  prisoner.  And  when  he  did, 
it  seemed  he  had  never  seen  so  much  concentrated  hatred 
on  any  face. 

"So,  you  shot  my  father?"  the  boy  said  in  a  slow,  savage 
manner. 

Barclay  had  not  come  to  discuss  the  dead  malefactor. 
He  wanted  to  learn  more  about  the  son — where  he  had  learnt 
his  excellent  French ;  how  he  came  to  differ  so  in  appearance 
from  the  Arab  chief  and  his  wild  following. 

"Your  father  has  paid  the  penalty  of  his  crimes,"  he  said 
quietly. 

"And  you  shall  pay  the  penalty  of  yours!"  the  boy 
cried  passionately;  "for  I  shall  kill  you  as  you  have  killed 
my  father.  Your  daughters  I  shall  sell  as  slaves.  Your 
sons  shall  toil  in  chains  in  my  city.  Your  wives  shall  be- 
come the  bondswomen  of  my  servants.  Remember,  white 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAEA  87 

man,  for  I  do  not  speak  lightly.  I  will  be  avenged.  I, 
Casim  Ammeh,  whose  father  you  have  thought  well  to 
murder !" 

The  savage  threats  of  a  wild,  heart-broken  boy  did  not 
trouble  George  Barclay  much.  But  his  mind  did  go  to  his 
tiny  four-year-old  daughter,  and  he  was  glad  she  was  safe 
in  England  and  not  within  reach  of  this  savage  lad. 

At  that  moment  he  was  more  worried  about  his  youthful 
captive  than  the  latter's  wild  threats. 

He  did  not  want  to  make  a  criminal  of  the  boy;  for, 
obviously,  whatever  wrong  he  had  done  was  done  under  the 
influence  of  his  savage  father.  And  there  looked  to  be  the 
makings  of  a  fine  man  in  him,  if  only  he  had  good  guidanca. 

Barclay  decided  to  put  the  case  before  the  French 
Government,  together  with  a  suggestion  of  his  own — that 
the  youngster  should  be  sent  somewhere  where  he  could 
be  brought  up  to  be  of  use  to  the  country,  not  a  constant 
thorn  in  its  flesh,  as  his  father  had  been. 

But  Captain  Barclay  need  not  have  troubled  himself  with 
making  plans  for  the  future  of  the  youthful  Sultan  of  El- 
Ammeh,  for  that  night  the  boy  escaped,  and  his  future  was 
left  in  his  own  hands. 


CHAPTER  VI 

AFTER  some  two  years  out  in  Gambia,  George  Barclay 
returned  to  England.  He  returned  with  a  scar  across  his 
right  cheek. 

That  scar  was  the  first  thing  his  little  daughter  remarked 
upon  when  the  excitement  of  reunion  had  died  down. 

Perched  on  his  knee,   she  touched  it  with  gentle  little 
fingers  and  kissed  it  with  soft  lips. 

"Who   has  hurt  my  nice  new   Daddy?"   she   asked   dis- 
tressfully. 

Then   there  followed  the   story   of  the  youthful   Sultan 
Casim  Ammeh. 

"Oh,  what  a  wicked  boy !"  she  exclaimed. 

Then  she  glanced  across  at  her  godfather  who  was  sitting 
near. 

"Isn't  he  a  bad,  naughty  boy,  Grand-godfather,  to  want  to 
kill  my  Daddy  and  sell  me  as  a  slave?" 

Henry  Langham  had  listened  to  the  story  with  interest, 
and  very  heartily  he  agreed  with  her. 

"I  shall  tell  Bobby,"  the  little  girl  went  on  indignantly, 
"and  he'll  go  and  kill  the  Sultan  Casim  Ammeh." 

"Who's  Bobby?"  her  father  asked. 

"My  sweetheart.     Master  Robert  Cameron." 

"So  in  my  absence  I've  been  cut  out,  have  I  ?"  her  father 
said  teasingly.     "I'm  dreadfuDy  jealous." 

But  Pansy  snuggled  closer  to  him,  and  her  arms  went 
round  his  neck  in  a  tight  hug. 

"There'll  never  be  anyone  as  nice   as  my   Daddy,"  she 
whispered. 

George  Barclay  held  the  tiny  girl  closer,  kissing  the  golden 
head. 

28 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA  29 

Often  during  his  months  in  England,  Pansy  would 
scramble  on  his  knee  and  say: 

"Daddy,  tell  me  the  story  of  Casim  Ammeh.  That 
naughty  boy  who  hurt  your  poor  face." 

To  Pansy  it  was  some  new  Arabian  Nights,  vastly  inter- 
esting because  her  father  was  one  of  the  principal  characters. 
Although  she  had  heard  it  quite  fifty  times,  she  was  ready 
to  hear  it  quite  fifty  times  more. 

"But,  my  darling,  you've  heard  it  scores  of  times," 
Barclay  said  one  day. 

For  all  that  he  told  the  story  again. 

Quietly  she  listened  until  the  end  was  reached.  Then 
she  said : 

"I  don't  like  him.  Not  one  little  bit.  Do  you  like  him, 
Daddy  ?" 

"To  tell  you  the  truth,  Pansy,  I  did  like  him.  He  was  a 
very  brave  boy." 

"I  shall  never  like  him,  because  he  hurt  you,"  she  said 
firmly,  her  little  flower-like  face  set  and  determined. 

"Well,  my  girlie,  you're  never  likely  to  meet  him,  so  it 
won't  make  much  difference  to  him  whether  you  like  him 
or  not." 

But — in  the  Book  of  Fate  it  was  written  otherwise. 


CHAPTER  VII 

SOMEWHERE  off  the  Boulevard  St.  Michel  there  is  a  cabaret. 
The  big  dancing  hall  has  red  walls  painted  with  yellow 
shooting  stars,  and,  overhead,  electric  lights  blaze  under  red 
and  yellow  shades.  There  is  a  bar  at  one  end,  and  several 
little  tables  for  the  patrons'  use  when  they  tire  of  dancing. 
In  the  evenings  a  band,  in  seedy,  red  uniforms  with  brass 
buttons,  fills,  with  a  crash  of  sound,  an  atmosphere  ladened 
with  patchouli  and  cigarette  smoke,  and  waiters,  in  still 
more  seedy  dress-suits,  attend  to  the  tables.  Never  at  any 
time  is  the  gathering  select,  and  generally  there  are  quite 
a  few  foreigners  of  all  colours  present. 

One  night,  the  most  noticeable  among  the  patrons  was 
an  Englishman,  well-groomed  and  tailored,  and  a  big  youth 
of  about  eighteen  in  a  flowing  white  burnoose. 

They  were  in  no  way  connected  with  each  other,  but 
chance,  in  the  shape  of  their  female  companions,  had 
brought  them  to  adjacent  tables. 

The  girl  with  the  youngster  was  very  pretty  in  a  hard, 
metallic  way,  with  the  white  face  and  vivid  red  lips  of  the 
Parisienne,  and  brown  eyes,  bright  and  polished-looking, 
that  were  about  as  expressionless  as  pebbles.  She  was 
attired  in  a  cheap,  black  evening  dress,  cut  very  low,  and 
about  her  plump  throat  was  a  coral  necklace.  Her  hair 
was  elaborately  dressed,  and  her  shoes,  although  well  worn, 
were  tidy. 

By  day,  Marie  Hamon  earned  a  meagre  living  for  herself 
in  a  florist's  shop.  At  night,  she  added  to  her  earnings  in 
the  recognized  way  of  quite  a  few  of  the  working  girls  of 
Paris.  And  this  particular  cabaret  was  one  of  her  hunting 
grounds. 

30 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAEA  31 

As  Marie  sat  there  "making  eyes"  at  the  youth  in  the 
white  burnoose,  the  man  at  the  next  table  remarked  in 
French,  in  an  audible  and  disgusted  tone : 

"Look  at  that  girl  there  making  up  to  that  young  nigger. 
A  beastly  spectacle,  I  call  it." 

Before  his  companion  had  time  to  reply  the  youth  was 
up,  his  black  eyes  flashing,  and  he  grasped  the  English- 
man's shoulder  in  an  angry,  indignant  fashion. 

"I  am  no  nigger!"  he  cried.  "I'm  the  Sultan  Casim 
Ammeh." 

"I  don't  care  a  damn  who  you  are  so  long  as  you  keep 
your  black  paws  off  me !" 

The  youth's  hands  were  not  black,  but  deeply  bronzed 
like  his  face,  which  looked  darker  than  it  really  was  against 
the  whiteness  of  his  hood. 

"Take  back  that  word,"  he  said  savagely,  "or,  by  Allah, 
it  shall  be  wiped  out  in  blood !" 

He  drew  his  knife.  The  girls  screamed.  Excited  waiters 
rushed  towards  the  table.  The  mixed  company  stopped 
dancing  and  pressed  forward  to  watch  what  looked  like 
the  beginning  of  a  royal  row.  Such  incidents  were  by  no 
means  unusual  in  the  cabaret. 

Only  the  Englishman  remained  calm.  He  grasped  his 
opponent's  wrist  quickly. 

"No,  you  don't,"  he  said.  "You  damned  niggers  seem 
to  think  you  own  the  world  nowadays." 

There  was  a  brief  scuffle.  But  the  Englishman  was  big 
and  heavy,  and  half  a  dozen  waiters  were  hanging  on  to 
the  enraged  and  insulted  youth.  His  knife  was  wrested 
from  his  hand.  He  was  hustled  this  way  and  that; 
and,  finally,  worsted  and  smouldering,  he  retired,  to 
be  led  to  another  and  more  distant  table  by  his  female 
companion. 

The  episode  was  over  in  a  couple  of  minutes.  Dis- 
appointed at  the  lack  of  bloodshed,  the  spectators  returned 
to  their  dancing.  Relieved,  the  waiters  went  back  to  their 
various  spheres.  The  Englishman  seated  himself  again  as 


32  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAEA 

if  nothing  had  happened.  At  a  distant  table  the  youth  sat 
and  glowered  at  him. 

"Who  is  that  man?"  he  asked  presently,  pointing  a  lean 
forefinger  at  his  late  opponent. 

Marie  shrugged  her  plump  shoulders. 

"I've  never  Been  him  here  before.  He  looks  to  me  like 
an  Englishman." 

"With  renewed  interest  the  youth  studied  the  distant 
figure,  hate  smouldering  in  his  black  eyes. 

So  he  was  one  of  the  nation  who  had  murdered  his  father ! 
This  man  who  had  insulted  him. 

But,  for  all  his  hatred  of  the  Englishman,  reluctantly  he 
admired  his  coolness  and  his  clothes. 

The  world  had  enlarged  for  Annette  Le  Breton's  son  since 
his  first  experience  with  the  English. 

On  escaping  from  Barclay,  with  the  remaining  handful 
of  the  defunct  Sultan's  following,  he  had  returned  to  El- 
Ammeh,  at  the  age  of  fourteen  its  recognised  ruler. 

The  boy  was  not  lacking  in  sense.  Defeat  at  the  hands 
of  both  British  and  French  made  him  decide  to  give  up 
what  had  been  the  late  Sultan's  chief  source  of  income — • 
marauding.  With  a  wisdom  beyond  his  years,  Casim 
Ammeh,  as  he  was  now  always  called,  decided  to  go  in  for 
trading;  and  before  many  years  had  passed  he  sa\r 
it  was  a  better  paying  game  than  marauding,  despite  its 
lack  of  excitement. 

Then  he  extended  his  operations. 

There  were  always  caravans  coming  to  his  desert  city, 
and  a  great  demand  for  articles  that  came  from  the  Europe 
his  mother  had  told  him  of. 

With  one  or  two  of  his  principal  merchants  he  went  down 
to  St.  Louis,  but  he  did  not  go  as  the  Sultan  Casim  Ammeh ; 
that  name  was  too  well  known  to  the  French  Government. 
Instead,  he  went  under  the  name  his  mother  used  to  call 
him,  Eaoul  Le  Breton.  And  under  that  name  he  opened  a 
store  in  St.  Louis. 

There  was  a  new  generation  in  the  town  since  his  real 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAKA  33 

father's  day,  and  the  name  roused  no  comment.  It  was  an 
ordinary  French  one.  In  St.  Louis  there  were  quite  a  few 
half-breed  French-Arabs,  as  the  youth  supposed  himself  to 
be,  living  and  trading  under  European  names. 

His  business  ventures  were  so  successful  that  he  opened 
several  more  stores  at  various  points  between  St.  Louis  and 
his  own  capital;  but  the  whereabouts  of  his  own  city  he 
did  not  divulge  to  strangers. 

At  sixteen  it  had  seemed  to  the  boy  that  St.  Louis  was 
the  hub  of  the  universe*;  but  at  eighteen  a  craving 
that  amounted  to  nostalgia  drove  him  further  afield — to 
Paris. 

And  he  went  in  Arabian  garments,  for  he  was  intensely 
proud  of  his  sultanship  and  the  desert  kingdom  he  ruled 
with  undisputed  sway. 

To  his  surprise,  he  felt  wonderfully  at  home  in  his 
mother's  city.  It  did  not  feel  as  strange  as  St.  Louis  had 
felt,  but  more  as  if  he  had  once  lived  there  and  had  forgotten 
about  it. 

He  had  been  a  couple  of  days  in  Paris,  wandering  at  will, 
when  on  the  second  evening  his  wanderings  had  brought 
him  in  contact  with  Marie  Hamon.  She  was  by  no  means 
the  first  of  hei  sort  to  accost  him,  but  she  was  the  first  he 
had  condescended  tc  take  any  notice  of.  She  had  smiled 
at  him  as,  aloof  and  haughty,  he  had  stalked  along  the 
Boulevard  St.  Michel,  and  had  fallen  into  step  beside  him. 
He  had  looked  at  her  in  a  peculiar  manner  that  was  half 
amusement,  half  contempt,  but  he  had  not  shaken  her  off. 

She  had  suggested  they  should  have  dinner  together,  and 
he  had  fallen  in  with  her  suggestion;  not  exactly  with 
alacrity,  but  as  if  he  wanted  to  study  the  girl  further.  For 
all  her  plump  prettiness  and  profession,  there  was  a  shrewd, 
sensible  air  about  her.  Afterwards,  at  her  instigation,  they 
had  repaired  to  the  cabaret. 

As  the  youth  continued  to  scowl  at  the  distant  English- 
man, with  the  idea  of  preventing  further  trouble,  Marie 
tried  to  get  his  mind  on  other  matters. 


34  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA 

"Casim,  let's  have  a  dance  ?"  she  suggested. 

"I  can  afford  to  pay  for  hired  dancers,  so  why  should  I 
posture  for  the  benefit  of  others?"  he  asked  scornfully. 

She  tittered. 

"Well,  get  me  another  drink  instead,  then." 

He  beckoned  a  waiter  and  gave  a  curt  order.  However, 
he  did  not  touch  the  cheap  champagne  himself.  Instead, 
he  kept  strictly  to  coffee. 

"Have  a  drop  of  cognac  in  it  to  cheer  you  up  a  bit," 
Marie  said.  "You  make  me  feel  as  if  I  were  at  a  funeral." 

"I'm  a  Mohammedan,  and  strong  drink  is  forbidden." 

"You  are  the  limit!  I  shouldn't  quarrel  with  the  good 
things  of  this  life  even  if  I  were  a  Mohammedan." 

"By  my  religion  women  have  no  souls,"  he  replied  in  a 
voice  that  spoke  volumes. 

But  Marie  was  not  easily  abashed. 

"The  lack  of  a  soul  doesn't  trouble  me  in  the  least,"  she 
responded  lightly.  "A  pretty  body  is  of  greater  use  to  a 
woman  any  day.  Do  you  think  I'm  pretty,  Casim?"  she 
finished  coquettishly. 

"I  shouldn't  be  with  you  unless  you  were,"  he  replied, 
as  if  her  question  were  an  insult  to  his  taste. 

For  some  minutes  there  was  silence.  As  the  girl  sipped 
her  champagne  she  watched  her  escort  in  a  calculating 
manner. 

"You've  got  lots  of  money,  haven't  you?"  she  said 
presently. 

"Not  as  much  as  I  intend  to  have,"  he  replied. 

"But  enough  to  buy  me  a  new  frock  ?"  she  questioned. 

"Fifty,  if  you  want  them." 

Marie  threw  her  arms  around  his  neck. 

"You  nice  boy !"  she  cried,  kissing  him  soundly. 

He  resented  her  attentions,  removing  her  arms  in  a  none 
too  gentle  manner. 

"I  object  to  such  displays  of  affection  in  public,"  he  said, 
with  an  air  of  ruffled  dignity. 

"Come  home  with  me,  then,"  she  suggested. 


A  SON"  OF  THE  SAHARA  35 

"Home"  to  Marie  was  an  attic  in  a  poor  street.  There 
Casim  Ammeh  went,  not  as  a  victim  to  her  charms,  as  she 
imagined,  but  seeing  in  her  a  means  to  his  own  end. 

The  next  morning  as  he  sat  at  breakfast  with  the  girl — 
a  meagre  repast  of  black  coffee  and  rolls — from  somewhere 
out  of  his  voluminous  robes  he  produced  a  string  of  pearls 
and  dangled  it  before  his  hostess.  Marie  looked  at  them, 
her  mouth  round  with  surprise,  for  they  were  real  and  worth 
at  least  ten  thousand  francs. 

"If  I  give  you  these,  Marie,  will  you  teach  me  to  become 
a  Frenchman  ?"  he  asked. 

"Won't  I  just!"  she  cried  enthusiastically,  and  without 
hesitation  continued:  "First  of  all  we  must  get  an  apart- 
ment. And,  mon  Dieu!  yes,  you  must  cut  your  hair  short." 

The  youth  wore  his  hair  long,  knotted  under  his  hood  in 
the  Arab  fashion. 

It  was  three  months  before  Casim  Ammeh  left  Paris. 
And  he  left  it  in  a  correctly  cut  English  suit  and  with  his 
smooth,  black  hair  brushed  back  over  his  head.  In  the 
spick-and-span  young  man  it  would  have  been  difficult  to 
recognise  the  barbaric  youth  who  had  come  there  knowing 
nothing  of  civilised  life  except  what  his  mother  had  told 
him  and  what  he  had  seen  in  St.  Louis;  and,  what  was 
more,  he  felt  at  ease  in  his  new  garments,  in  spite  of  having 
worn  burnoose  and  hood  all  his  life. 

The  day  before  he  left,  Marie  sat  with  him  in  the  salon 
of  the  pretty  flat  they  had  occupied  since  the  day 
they  struck  their  bargain.  And  she  looked  very  different, 
too. 

Her  evening  frock  was  no  longer  of  shabby  black.  It  was 
one  of  the  several  elaborate  gowns  she  now  possessed,  thanks 
to  the  young  man.  And  she  no  longer  wore  a  string  of  coral 
beads  about  her  pretty  throat,  but  the  pearl  necklace. 

Although  Marie  had  taken  on  the  youth  as  a  business 
speculation,  within  a  few  days  she  loved  him  passionately. 
She  was  loath  to  let  her  benefactor  go,  but  all  her  wiles 
failed  to  keep  him. 


36  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAEA 

"When  you're  back  in  Africa  you  won't  quite  forget  your 
little  Marie  who  taught  you  to  be  a  man,  will  you?"  she 
whispered  tearfully. 

Her  remarks  made  him  laugh. 

"I've  had  women  or  my  own  for  at  least  a  year  before  I 
met  you,"  he  replied. 

It  seemed  to  Marie  she  had  never  really  known  the  youth 
who  had  come  to  her  a  savage  and  was  leaving  her  looking 
a  finished  man  of  the  world.  He  never  talked  to  her  of 
himself  or  his  affairs.  Although  kind  and  generous,  he 
demanded  swift  obedience,  and  he  treated  her  always  as 
something  infinitely  inferior  to  himself. 

"Say  you  love  me,"  she  pleaded.  "That  you'll  think  of 
me  sometimes." 

"Love!"  he  said  contemptuously.  "I  don't  love  women. 
I  have  them  for  my  pleasure.  I'm  not  one  of  your  white 
men  who  spend  their  days  whining  at  some  one  woman's 
feet  pleading  for  favours.  Women  to  me  are  only  toys. 
Good  to  look  upon,  if  beautiful,  but  not  so  good  as  horses." 

"Oh,  you  are  cruel!"  she  said,  weeping.  "And  I  thought 
you  loved  me." 

"It  is  the  woman's  place  to  love.  There  are  other  things 
in  a  man's  life." 

Marie  realised  she  had  never  had  any  hold  on  her  protege. 
She  had  been  of  use  to  him,  and  he  had  paid  her  well  for  it, 
and  there,  as  far  as  he  was  concerned,  the  matter  ended. 

Being  sensible,  she  sat  up  and  dried  her  tears,  gathering 
consolation  from  the  fact  that  he  had  been  a  good  specula- 
tion. There  would  be  no  immediate  need  to  return  to 
the  florist's  shop  when  he  had  gone.  In  fact,  if  she  liked 
to  sell  the  necklace,  she  could  buy  a  business  of  her  own. 

"Shall  you  come  to  Paris  again,  Casim?"  she  asked. 

"Oh  yes,  often.  It's  a  good  city,  full  of  beautiful  women 
who  are  easy  to  buy." 

But  he  made  a  reservation  to  himself. 

When  he  came  again  he  would  come  under  the  name  his 


A  SOX  OF  THE  SAHABA  37 

mother  used  to  call  him — Raoul  Le  Breton,  and  he  would 
come  in  European  clothes.  Then  the  English  he  hated 
would  not  be  able  to  hurl  that  detestable  word  "nigger" 
at  him. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

IN  a  select  French  boarding-school  a  girl  sat  reading  a 
letter.  She  was  about  fifteen  years  old,  a  slender,  lovely 
child,  light  and  graceful,  with  a  cascade  of  golden  curls 
reaching  to  her  waist,  and  wide,  purple  eyes.  Her  com- 
plexion was  perfect.  She  had  a  vivid  little  red  mouth, 
impulsive  and  generous,  and  a  pink  rose  on  each  cheek. 

On  reading  the  letter,  sorrow  clouded  her  face.  For  it 
ran: — 

"MY  DEAE  LITTLE  PANSY, 

When  you  get  this  letter  I  shall  be  with  your  mother. 
I  am  leaving  you  the  money  she  would  not  have.  And  it  was 
worth  having,  you  will  agree,  for  it  will  bring  you  in  about 
£60,000  a  year.  The  only  condition  I  make  is  that  you  take 
the  name  your  mother  refused,  your  own  second  name.  And 
my  one  hope  is  that  you  will  be  more  successful  in  love  than  I 
was. 

Your   affectionate  'grand -godfather/ 
HENRY  LANGHAM." 

For  some  minutes  Pansy  sat  brooding  on  her  godfather's 
end.  The  poor  old  boy  had  been  awfully  ill  for  a  long  time, 
and  now  he  was  dead. 

She  blinked  back  a  couple  of  tears.  Then  her  thoughts 
went  to  the  fortune  she  had  inherited. 

Presently  she  crossed  to  the  mirror  and  looked  at  herself. 

"No,  old  girl,"  she  said  to  her  reflection,  "your  head 
isn't  turned." 

Then  she  slipped  the  letter  into  her  pocket  and  made 
straight  for  her  great  friend  and  confidante. 

To  the  average  eye  there  was  nothing  about  Miss  Grainger 
to  attract  a  vivid,  beautiful  girl  like  Pansy  Barclay — Pansy 
Langham  as  she  would  be  now.  Miss  Grainger  was  middle- 

38 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA  39 

aged,  grey-haired,  thin  and  depressed-looking:  the  down- 
trodden English  mistress,  with  no  qualifications  except 
good  breeding. 

She  was  poor  and  friendless,  and  life  had  gone  hard  with 
her,  but  these  facts  were  sufficient  to  fill  Pansy's  heart 
with  a  warmth  of  generous  affection  and  sympathy. 

The  girl's  principal  thought  as  she  went  along  was  not 
so  much  of  the  millions  she  had  just  inherited,  but  that  she 
had  always  wanted  to  do  something  for  Miss  Grainger,  and 
now  she  saw  a  way  of  doing  it. 

She  entered  the  room  that  served  the  English  mistress  as 
bedroom,  study  and  sitting-room,  disturbing  the  latter  in 
the  midst  of  correcting  an  accumulated  pile  of  exercise 
books. 

"What  is  it,  Pansy?"  she  asked,  smiling  at  her  favourite. 

"Miss  Grainger,  you'll  be  pleased  to  hear  I'm  a  mil- 
lionaire." 

The  English  mistress  put  down  her  pen  carefully,  and 
then  sat  staring  at  the  child. 

"Really,  my  dear,"  she  said  in  a  bewildered  tone,  "you 
have  a  way  of  saying  the  most  surprising  things  in  the 
most  matter-of-fact  manner.  But,  since  you're  saying  it, 
it  must  be  true." 

"That's  a  character  in  itself,"  Pansy  remarked,  smiling, 
a  smile  that  brought  to  view  several  bewitching  dimples. 

She  produced  the  letter  and  handed  it  to  her  friend. 

The  English  mistress  read  it  through. 

"Sixty  thousand  pounds  a  year!"  she  exclaimed.  "It 
makes  my  head  reel." 

"Then  yours  can't  be  so  firmly  screwed  on  as  mine. 
Mine  isn't  turned  one  little  bit.  I  looked  at  myself  in  a 
glass  to  see." 

"But  what  are  you  going  to  do  with  it  all?"  the  govern- 
ess asked  helplessly. 

"Spend  it,  of  course.  I  take  after  my  father  and  never 
shirk  an  unpleasant  duty,"  she  went  on,  a  mischievous 
glint  in  her  eyes.  "To  begin  with,  you,  Miss  Grainger, 


40  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA 

are  going  to  be  my  companion,  and  we'll  have  a  yacht  and 
go  all  round  the  world  together,  and  see  and  do  every- 
thing that  can  be  seen  and  done." 

"You'll  get  married,  Pansy,"  the  governess  said,  looking 
lovingly  at  the  beautiful  flower-like,  little  face. 

"Not  much!  You  dear  old  antiquated  thing.  I'm  not 
going  to  be  tied  by  the  leg  in  that  fashion." 

"As  the  English  mistress,  I  must  remind  you  that  'tied 
by  the  leg5  is  slang." 

"When  you're  my  companion  you'll  be  talking  slang 
yourself.  I'm  not  so  sure  I  won't  make  that  one  of  the 
stipulations,"  the  child  went  on  teasingly.  "It'll  be  such 
a  change  for  you  after  thirty  years  of  correcting  stupid 
exercises." 

"It  will  be  rather,"  Miss  Grainger  said  wistfully. 

"And  I  shall  come  out  at  seventeen,"  Pansy  went  on. 
"I  must  start  as  early  as  possible  if  I'm  to  spend  all  that 
money.  I  shall  write  and  ask  my  father  if  I  may  come  out 
at  seventeen.  Do  you  think  he'll  refuse?" 

"No  man  will  ever  refuse  you  anything,  Pansy.  You're 
too  sweet  and  good  and  beautiful." 

"And  rich.  Don't  forget  the  rich.  That'll  be  a  tremen- 
dous draw." 

Miss  Grainger  smiled  at  her  favourite. 

"I  hope  the  man  who  marries  you  will  pick  you  for  your 
good  heart  and  generous  nature,  not  your  looks  and  money," 
she  remarked. 

"Still  harping  on  that  old  string,  Mrs.  Noah.  Women 
don't  get  married  nowadays  if  they  can  afford  to  stay 
single." 

Then  the  school  dinner-bell  ringing  sent  Pansy  from  the 
room,  but  not  before  she  had  given  an  impetuous  hug  and 
kiss  to  her  friend. 


CHAPTER  IX 

PARIS  always  has  a  welcome  for  millionaires.  And  it  always 
had  a  specially  warm  welcome  for  Kaoul  Le  Breton,  the 
African  merchant-prince.  Not  only  was  he  fabulously  rich, 
but  he  was  young  and  remarkably  good-looking.  It  was 
whispered  that  he  had  Arab  blood  in  his  veins,  but  he  was 
wealthy  enough  for  the  majority  to  overlook  this  drawback. 

Like  many  modern  Frenchmen,  he  dabbled  in  "le  sport." 
He  was  a  brilliant  tennis  player,  a  worthy  opponent  at  bil- 
lards,  and  he  kept  a  stud  of  race-horses.  There  was  hardly 
an  actress  of  any  repute  and  with  any  pretence  to  youth  and 
beauty  who  had  not  had  his  patronage  at  one  time  or  the 
other.  Match-making  mothers  with  marriageable  daughters 
laid  snares  about  his  feet.  With  surprising  agility  he 
avoided  their  traps.  None  of  the  daughters  proved  suf- 
ficiently tempting  to  turn  him  from  the  broad,  smooth  way  of 
gay  Parisian  bachelorhood  to  the  steep  and  jagged  path  of 
matrimony. 

Eaoul  Le  Breton  was  about  twenty-five  when  he  paid  his 
sixth  visit  to  Paris.  He  came  now  for  about  three  months 
every  year.  And  he  always  came  in  style,  with  a  whole 
retinue  of  Arab  servants — silent,  discreet  men  who  never 
gossiped  about  their  master.  It  was  whispered  also  that  out 
in  Africa  he  had  a  whole  harem  of  his  own ;  moreover,  that  he 
was  some  big  chief  or  the  other.  In  fact,  many  things  were 
whispered  about  him,  for,  on  the  whole,  Paris  knew  very 
little  except  that  he  was  wealthy  and  wild. 

His  French  acquaintances  tried  to  learn  more  of  his  doings 
through  the  medium  of  his  own  private  doctor,  a  stout 
Frenchman  who  accompanied  the  young  millionaire  to  and 
fro.  But  Dr.  Edouard  refused  to  gossip  about  his  friend  and 
patron. 

41 


43  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA 

In  spite  of  his  success,  the  young  Sultan  of  El-Ammeh  had 
not  forgotten  George  Barclay. 

On  getting  more  in  touch  with  civilisation  and  its  ways 
he  had  tried  to  find  out  the  name  of  the  man  who  was  respon- 
sible for  the  death  of  his  supposed  father.  It  was  not  an 
easy  task.  George  Barclay  had  left  Gambia  five  years  before 
Eaoul  Le  Breton  set  about  his  investigations.  There  had 
been  a  succession  of  men  since  Barclay's  time,  and  the  shoot- 
ing of  a  native  malefactor  was  not  a  matter  of  great  note  in 
the  annals  of  a  Government. 

However,  eventually  Le  Breton  managed  to  establish 
the  identity  of  the  man  he  looked  upon  as  his  father's 
murderer. 

But  to  trace  George  Barclay  in  England  proved  an  even 
more  difficult  task  than  tracing  him  in  Africa. 

The  Englishman  had  not  stopped  long  in  his  country. 
In  search  of  forgetfulness,  he  had  gone  from  one  place  to 
another,  holding  posts  in  various  parts  of  the  Empire. 

The  Sultan  Casim  Ammeh  was  twenty-five  when  he  heard 
that  Barclay  was  in  the  Malay  Straits. 

The  news  came  to  him  in  Paris  just  when  he  was  setting 
out  for  an  evening's  amusement  in  company  with  Dr. 
Edouard.  The  letter  was  brought  to  him  as  he  stood  in 
dress-suit,  opera  hat  in  hand,  in  his  own  private  sitting- 
room  at  the  palatial  hotel  he  always  patronised  when  in 
Paris. 

On  perusing  it  he  turned  to  his  companion,  and  said, 
with  an  air  of  savage  triumph: 

"Well,  Edouard,  I've  managed  to  trace  my  man  at 
last." 

The  doctor  knew  who  the  man  in  question  was,  for  he, 
Edouard,  was  the  Sultan  Casim's  one  confidant  Bather 
uneasily  he  glanced  at  his  patron.  He  wished  the  young 
man  would  be  content  with  money  and  the  many  joys  and 
pleasures  it  could  buy — for  Casim  Ammeh  was  no  longer 
a  strict  Mohammedan — and  would  not  be  always  hankering 
after  vengeance,  a  vengeance  that  might  embroil  him  with 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA  43 

England  and  bring  his  wild  and  brilliant  career  to  an 
abrupt  close. 

''Where  is  George  Barclay?"  Edouard  asked  uneasily. 

"In  the  Straits  Settlements." 

The  doctor  experienced  a  feeling  of  intense  pleasure  on 
hearing  Barclay  was  in  so  remote  a  spot. 

"It'll  be  difficult  for  you  to  get  hold  of  him  there/'  he 
remarked,  trying  to  keep  out  of  his  voice  the  relief  he  was 
feeling. 

"He  won't  stay  there  for  ever.  I've  waited  eleven  years 
for  my  vengeance.  I  can  go  on  waiting  a  little  longer,  until 
Fate  thinks  well  to  place  him  in  a  more  accessible  position." 

With  a  savage  expression  Le  Breton  turned  to  a  desk. 
Sitting  down,  he  wrote  to  his  agents  telling  them  to  keep 
him  informed  of  George  Barclay's  movements. 


PART  II 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  harem  in  the  palace  of  El-Ammeh  led  into  a  large  hall 
with  carved  doors  and  tiny  arabesque  windows,  fretted 
and  scrolled,  with  no  one  spot  big  enough  to  squeeze  more 
than  a  hand  through. 

Generally  speaking,  the  women  of  the  harem  preferred  the 
large  hall,  where  they  could  gossip  among  themselves  and 
with  their  attendant  women,  to  the  little  rooms  that  were 
their  own  private  quarters. 

But  there  was  one  special  apartment  that  they  all  in 
turn  had  striven  after  and,  in  turn,  had  failed  to  attain. 
No  one  in  the  harem  had  seen  the  room  except  old  Sara, 
and  she  had  plenty  of  tales  to  tell  about  its  magnificence. 
It  was  a  big  gilded  chamber,  with  a  ceiling  like  the  sky  on 
a  desert  night,  and  great  golden,  jewelled  lamps.  There 
was  a  wonderful  bathroom,  a  fretted  gallery  that  gave  a 
wide  view  of  the  desert,  a  walled  garden  full  of  roses,  and, 
above  all,  a  door  that  led  into  the  Sultan's  private  suite. 
The  room  had  had  no  occupant  since  the  days  of  the 
Sultan's  mother,  the  Lady  Annette,  the  first  wife  and 
favourite  of  his  father.  And  Sara  had  been  her  special 
slave  and  attendant. 

It  could  be  reached  from  the  harem.  At  one  point  behind 
the  silken  curtains  a  narrow  stairway  led  upwards,  and 
ended  in  a  scented,  sandalwood  door.  But  the  door  was 
always  locked,  and  only  the  Sultan  had  the  key.  It  was 
common  harem  gossip  that  in  that  room  he  would  place 
the  one  among  his  slaves  whom  he  deigned  to  make  his 
first  wife. 

Although  the  law  allowed  him  four,  and  as  many  slaves 
as  he  fancied,  so  far  he  had  no  legal  wife.  It  was  strange, 

47 


48  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA 

considering  he  was  nearly  thirty.  But,  in  many  ways,  he 
differed  from  all  the  previous  Sultans.  According  to  old 
Sara,  it  was  because  his  mother  belonged  to  quite  another 
race,  and  had  come  from  a  land  as  remote  from  El-Ammeh 
as  Paradise,  where  the  women  were  all  white,  a  land  that 
the  Sultan  now  visited  yearly. 

For  that  land  he  was  starting  to-morrow. 

He  had  just  been  to  the  harem  to  say  farewell  to  the 
half-dozen  girls  there,  departing  with  promises  of  new 
jewels  and  novelties  to  please  and  amuse  these  toys  of  his 
on  his  return.  And  now  he  lingered  with  his  newest  slave 
and  favourite,  Rayma,  the  Arab  girl  he  had  bought  but 
six  weeks  ago. 

Envious  glances  were  cast  towards  the  door  behind  which 
the  Sultan  Casim  Ammeh  and  his  new  slave.  Rayiiia,  took 
farewell  of  one  another. 

One  girl  more  than  the  others  watched  the  door  with 
hurt,  angry,  jealous  eyes. 

She  was  about  twenty-three,  with  a  full  figure,  a  creamy  skin, 
a  profusion  of  long  black  curls,  and  great  soft,  languid  eyes — 
a  half-breed  Spanish-Moorish  girl  of  the  true  odalesque  type. 

Her  attire  was  scanty.  A  red  silk  slip  draped  her  from 
shoulder  to  knee,  held  on  by  ribbon  straps;  and  on  her 
hands  and  wrists  and  neck  a  quantity  of  barbaric  jewelery 
flashed. 

"I  pray  to  Allah  that  on  his  travels  our  Sultan  will  find 
some  woman  he  loves  better  than  Rayma,"  she  said,  spite 
and  jealousy  in  her  soft  voice. 

"No,  I  don't  pray  that,  Leonora,"  one  of  her  companions 
remarked.  uFor  you  took  him  from  me,  and  what  am  I 
now?  Like  you,  a  scent  that  has  lost  its  savour;  for  it 
is  but  a  shred  of  love  that  the  Lord  Casim  has  now  for  me. 
No;  I  pray  may  he  Know  what  it  is  te  love  and  be  denied, 
for  too  easily  do  women's  hearts  go  to  him.  And  no  man 
values  what  comes  to  him  cheaply.  Our  day  is  done,  mine 
and  yours,  Leonora,  as  Rayma's  will  be  when  another 


JS 
O 

u 
S 
o 
o 

1 

V 

K 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAEA  49 

woman  takes  his  fancy.  No,  pray  as  I  do,  that  he  may 
love  a  woman  who  has  no  desire  for  him,  who  spurns  his 
love — a  woman  whose  people  will  not  sell  her,  who  is  no 
slave  put  up  for  auction,  as  we  were.  May  his  heart  ache, 
as  mine  has  ached.  May  passion  keep  him  sleepless,  with 
empty  arms  and  craving  desire.  May  love  prove  to  him  a 
mirage  that  he  can  see  yet  never  grasp !" 

Unconscious  of  these  wishes,  the  Sultan  Casim  Ammeh 
and  the  slave  girl  Kayma  lingered  together  behind  closed 
doors. 

The  moon  shone  into  the  little  apartment,  showing  a 
big  man  in  a  white  burnoose,  and  at  his  side  a  girl  lay,  look- 
ing at  him  with  tearful,  love-laden  eyes. 

She  was  about  seventeen,  with  an  amber  skin  and  a 
cloud  of  straight  black  hair  that  reached  to  her  heels™ 
A  cloud  out  from  which  looked  a  little  oval  face,  with  great 
black  eyes  and  a  small  red  mouth,  a  perfect  type  of  Arab 
beauty. 

"My  Lord  Casim,  beloved,  my  heart  breaks  at  the  thought 
of  your  going,"  she  said  tearfully. 

Smilingly  he  watched  her,  caressing  her  in  an  indulgent 
fashion. 

"But,  my  desert  flower,  I  shall  come  back  again/' 

"But  it  is  so  far.  And  in  that  Paris  there  are  so  many 
women.  I  know,  because  Sara  has  told  me.  And  all  their 
arms  will  be  stretched  out  to  keep  you  there." 

"No  arms  have  kept  me  there  for  longer  than  three 
months,"  he  replied. 

"And  mine!  Mine  are  not  strong  enough  to  keep  you 
here?"  she  sobbed. 

He  drew  the  sobbing  little  beauty  into  his  embrace,  and 
kissed  her  tear-stained  face. 

"Tell  me,  my  jewel,  what  favour  can  I  grant  you  before 
I  go?" 

"I  want  nothing  but  just  to  rest  upon  your  heart  for 
ever." 


50  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAEA 

With  a  tender  hand  he  stroked  her  long  black  hair,  and 
tried  to  soothe  away  the  tears;  flattering  tears,  resulting 
from  his  coming  departure. 

"Don't  go  to  Paris,  Casim,  beloved/'  she  whispered. 
"Stay  in  El-Ammeh.  Paris  is  so  far,  and  I  am  so  ignorant 
of  all  outside  of  the  desert.  Ignorant  of  everything  except 
love  and  you.  Think,  my  lord,  only  six  weeks  have  we 
been  together,  and  now  you  would  go!  Only  six  weeks 
since  my  father  brought  me  from  the  desert  to  sell  me  to  the 
Sultan  Casim  Ammeh.  How  afraid  I  was  until  I  saw  you. 
And  then  I  was  afraid  I  might  not  find  favour  in  your  sight. 
For  my  heart  was  yours  the  moment  our  eyes  met.  Only 
six  weeks  ago!  Casim,  don't  go,"  she  implored.  "Stay 
with  me,  for  my  heart  is  breaking." 

"Little  one,  there  is  business  as  well  as  love,"  he  said 
gently. 

"I  think  of  nothing  but  love." 

"Love  is  quite  enough  for  any  girl  to  think  of." 

"And  those  women  in  Paris,  do  they  think  only  of  love  ?  " 

"No;  they  think  of  money  as  well.  That's  why  I  prefer 
you." 

She  slipped  her  slim  arms  about  his  neck,  pressing,  her 
slight  form  against  him,  kissing  him  passionately. 

"Let  me  live  in  the  gilded  chamber  until  you  come  back," 
she  whispered,  "and  then  I  should  feel  the  most  honoured 
among  your  slaves." 

However,  he  avoided  this  suggestion. 

"We'll  see  about  that  when  I  return,"  he  answered  with  an 
amused,  indulgent  air. 

Then  he  held  the  girl  closer. 

"Now,  before  I  go,  Eayma,  is  there  nothing  you  want? 
Nothing  I  can  do  for  you  ?  " 

"There  is  one  thing,  my  Sultan.  Sell  Leonora.  I  hate 
her.  She's  a  great  fat  toad,  always  plotting  and  planning 
to  steal  your  heart  from  me." 

"I  couldn't  do  that.     I'm  not  quite  like  your  desert  men, 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAEA  51 

remember.  I  can't  sell  a  woman  who  has  once  pleased  me. 
But,  on  my  return,  I'll  find  her  a  nice  husband,  if  that  will 
satisfy  you." 

There  was  a  note  in  his  voice  that  brooked  no  argument; 
and  the  girl,  reared  for  the  harem,  was  quick  to  notice  it. 

She  gave  a  sharp  glance  at  her  owner.  It  seemed  that 
a  man  she  did  not  know  stood  behind  her  Sultan,  indulgent 
master  as  he  had  proved.  A  man  she  had  no  hold  over. 


CHAPTER  II 

IN  one  of  the  hotels  in  the  Island  of  Grand  Canary  dinner 
had  just  been  served.  Around  the  door  of  the  large  dining- 
hall  the  manager,  the  head  waiter  and  several  underlings 
hovered,  with  an  air  of  awaiting  the  arrival  of  some  import- 
ant personage. 

Presently  two  people  appeared  in  the  doorway. 

One  was  a  middle-aged  woman  with  grey  hair  and  a  prim 
expression.  She  was  wearing  a  plain  black  silk  evening 
dress,  and  she  had  the  look  of  a  retired  governess.  Her 
companion  was  of  quite  another  type.  She  was  a  slender, 
graceful  girl  of  medium  height,  with  a  mop  of  short,  golden 
curls  dancing  round  a  small,  frank  face,  that  gave  her  the 
look  of  some  lovely,  delicate  schoolboy.  She  wore  a  simple 
white  silk  frock,  and  her  only  mark  of  wealth  was  a  large 
diamond  hanging  from  a  thin  platinum  chain  about  her 
slender  neck;  a  gem  in  itself  worth  a  fortune. 

Evidently  she  was  the  personage  expected.  As  she 
appeared  the  manager  went  forward  to  meet  her.  She 
smiled  at  him  in  a  friendly,  affable  manner.  With  him  at 
her  side,  she  and  her  companion  went  up  the  big  room, 
towards  a  specially  reserved  table,  the  head-waiter  and  a 
little  group  of  others  following  behind. 

As  she  came  up  the  room,  a  man  seated  at  one  of  the 
table?  in  the  center  of  the  room  said  to  his  neighbour : 

"Who  is  that  girl?  The  whole  hotel  is  falling  over  itself 
to  wait  on  her." 

The  speaker  was  a  short,  thick-set  man,  with  a  red  face 
and  fishy  eyes. 

"That's  Pansy  Langham,  the  millionairess/'  his  neigh- 
bour replied.  "She  came  over  in  her  yacht  from  Teneriffe 

52 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA  '53 

this  afternoon.  Barclay  her  name  was  before  she  came 
into  her  money/' 

"A  millionaire,  is  she?  That's  the  second  one  of  the 
species  in  Grand  Canary  then.  For  there's  a  French 
millionaire  staying  in  a  villa  at  the  back  here.  Le  Breton, 
his  name  is.  Bnt  what's  brought  the  girl  to  these  parts? 
There's  not  much  here  to  attract  a  woman  with  money." 

"She's  here  for  her  health,  I  believe." 

"Not  lungs,  surely !     She  looks  healthy  enough." 

"No,  she  had  an  accident  about  a  couple  of  months  ago. 
Some  half-mad  horse  mauled  her  horribly,  all  but  killed 
her.  I  remember  reading  about  the  case  in  the  papers. 
They  say  she's  a  very  decent  sort,  in  spite  of  her  millions. 
Gives  an  awful  lot  away  in  charity." 

As  the  girl  approached  the  table,  the  red-faced  man 
screwed  an  eyeglass  into  one  fishy  eye  and  surveyed  her 
from  head  to  foot. 

"She's  not  bad  looking,"  he  said  in  a  condescending 
manner,  as  if  it  were  his  prerogative  to  criticise  every  woman 
who  crossed  his  horizon.  "But  she's  not  a  patch  on  the 
red-haired  woman  in  the  villa  at  the  back  here.  Now, 
she's  what  I  call  a  beauty." 

He  did  not  trouble  to  lower  his  voice,  and  his  words 
reached  Pansy. 

She  glanced  in  his  direction  and  wrinkled  her  pretty  nose, 
as  if  she  were  smelling  a  bad  smell.  And  with  no  more 
notice  than  that,  she  passed  on  to  her  own  table. 


CHAPTER  III 

JUST  off  the  main  road  between  the  Port  and  the  city  of 
Las  Palmas,  Grand  Canary,  a  villa  stood.  It  was  situated 
on  a  hill;  a  white,  flat-roofed  building,  set  in  a  pleasant 
garden.  Long  windows  opened  on  a  lawn  surrounded  by 
trees. 

Out  from  one  of  the  windows  a  flood  of  light  streamed 
and  mingled  with  the  silver  of  the  night.  The  apartment 
it  came  from  was  elaborately  furnished,  in  an  ornate 
French  style,  with  gilded  furniture,  bevelled  mirror^  and 
satin-covered  chairs  and  lounges. 

On  one  of  the  latter  a  woman  lolled  back  amongst  an 
array  of  soft  cushions.  She  was  big  and  voluptuous- 
looking,  with  a  dead-white  skin,  a  mass  of  flaming  red 
hair,  and  eyes  green  as  the  emerald  necklace  she  wore. 

She  had  on  an  extremely  low-cut,  black  satin  dress,  that 
suited  her  style  and  colouring.  And  she  made  a  striking, 
if  somewhat  bizarre,  picture. 

But  attractive  and  unique  as  she  looked,  the  man  sitting 
with  her  appeared  more  interested  in  the  view  from  the 
window  than  in  his  companion. 

From  there,  a  glint  of  moonlit  sea  showed  between  the 
vaguely  moving  trees;  a  peaceful  stretch  that  spread  away 
to  the  purple,  misty  horizon. 

He  was  a  big  man  of  about  thirty,  well  groomed  and 
handsome,  with  smooth  black  hair,  close-clipped  moustache, 
and  dark,  smouldering  eyes  that  had  a  latent  searching 
look  at  the  back  of  them.  He  was  in  evening  attire,  with 
black  pearl  studs  in  his  pleated  dress  shirt. 

For  some  time  the  two  had  been  sitting  in  silence;  the 
man's  gaze  on  the  sea ;  the  woman's  on  the  man,  in  a  hungry, 
anxious  manner. 

54 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAEA  55 

"You've  got  one  of  your  restless  moods  on  to-night, 
Raoul,"  she  said  presently. 

"I  get  them  frequently  nowadays.  Nothing  ever  satisfies 
me  for  long." 

She  smiled  at  him,  a  soft,  slow  smile. 

"Yet  I  have  satisfied  you  longer  than  most,  for  you  are 
still  here  with  me." 

"If  s  not  you  so  much,  Lucille,  as  business  that  keeps 
me  here." 

"I  believe  you  have  no  heart  at  all,"  she  cried,  a  catch 
of  pain  in  her  voice.  ''You  look  upon  all  women  as  animals.'" 

"You  are  a  most  handsome  animal,  you  must  agree/' 
he  replied. 

"You  talk  as  if  you'd  bought  me." 

"I  don't  know  that  I  ever  put  it  quite  so  crudely  as 
that." 

"Put  it  as  crudely  as  you  like,"  she  cried  in  a  sudden 
gust  of  temper.  "You  have  taken  all  from  me  and  given 
me  nothing  in  return." 

He  made  no  reply.  In  a  slightly  amused  manner  his 
glance  rested  on  her  emerald  necklace. 

"You  may  look,"  she  went  on  passionately.  "But  I  want 
more  than  gifts.  I  want  love,  not  just  to  be  the  crea- 
ture of  your  passions." 

"Then  you  want  too  much.  There's  no  such  thing  as  love 
between  men  and  women.  There's  only  passion." 

"You  are  cruel,"  she  moaned. 

"Cruel!  Merely  because  I  refuse  to  be  enslaved  by 
any  one  woman,  eaten  up  in  mind  and  body  and  soul,  as 
some  of  the  men  I  know  are?  I  wasn't  brought  up  to  look 
upon  women  as  superior  beings,  and  I've  never  met  one 
yet  to  make  me  want  to  change  my  sentiments.  They 
are  here  for  my  convenience  and  pleasure,  and  nothing 
more." 

There  was  silence  agnin. 

Lucille  sighed. 
.  She  knew  she  had  xio  hold  over  him  other  than  her  sex, 


Kg  A  SON  OP  THE  SAHAEA 

and  never  had  had.  Heroics,  temper  and  entreaties  had  no 
effect  on  him  whatsoever;  he  remained  always  unmoved  and 
indifferent. 

With  a  shrug  she  picked  out  a  chocolate  from  a  large 
box  at  her  side.  Then  she  changed  the  conversation. 

'^What's  the  business,  Raoul?  I'd  no  idea  you  had  any 
here.  I  thought  ours  was  a  pleasure  trip,  purely — or 
impurely." 

"The  business  is  strictly  private,"  he  replied,  a  savage 
note  in  his  voice. 

A  month  before,  on  leaving  Paris,  when  Le  Breton  had 
asked  Lucille  Lemesurier,  the  actress,  to  accompany  him 
on  his  yacht  and  spend  a  week  or  so  in  Grand  Canary,  it 
had  been  for  pleasure  solely. 

But  a  few  days  ago  a  letter  had  reached  him. 

A  letter  to  the  effect  that  his  enemy,  now  Sir  George 
Barclay,  had  been  appointed  governor  of  Gambia,  The 
Sultan  Casim  Ammeh  was  waiting  in  Grand  Canary  until 
certain  that  his  man  was  en  route  for  his  new  post. 


CHAPTER  IV 

ON  the  balcony  of  her  bedroom  Pansy  Langham  stood,  slim 
and  boyish-looking  in  a  suit  of  silk  pyjamas. 

Beneath,  the  hotel  grounds  spread,  running  down  to  the 
shore.  Beyond,  the  sea  stretched,  a  silver  mirror,  away  to 
the  sparkling,  frosty  mist  of  the  horizon.  In  the  milky  sky 
the  moon  soared,  a  molten  globe,  touching  the  drooping  palms 
and  making  their  quivering  fronds  look  like  silver  fountains. 
A  little  line  of  waves  lapped  murmurously  on  the  shore, 
in  a  running  ridge  of  white  fire.  The  stone  wall  edging  the 
garden  was  turned  into  marble.  Here  and  there  across  the 
beach  the  taller  trees  threw  thick,  ebony  shadows. 

On  the  whole  expanse  of  silvered  sea,  only  one  mark 
showed  like  a  black  dot  in  the  distance. 

Pansy  had  seen  the  mark  when  it  had  been  much  nearer 
the  shore;  a  man's  dark  head.  He  had  swum  out  and  out, 
away  into  the  mist  and  moonlight. 

It  was  long  after  midnight.  In  the  whole  white  world 
there  was  no  sign  of  life  except  that  dark  head  and  the 
girl  on  the  balcony  who  was  watching  the  swimmer. 

The  black  dot  grew  bigger,  as,  with  powerful  overhand 
strokes,  the  man  made  his  way  shorewards. 

When  about  two  hundred  yards  away  from  the  beach 
the  strong  ease  of  his  limbs  altered  suddenly.  They  grew 
contorted.  He  threw  up  his  arms,  and  a  moment  later 
vanished  completely. 

Pansy  gave  a  quick  gasp  of  alarm. 

But  the  man  appeared  again,  trying  to  float,  as  a  level- 
headed swimmer  does  when  cramps  seize  him,  in  order 
to  get  air  between  the  spasms  that  send  him  writhing  under 
water;  a  hopeless  task  usually,  unless  aid  is  quickly  forth- 
coming. 

57 


58  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA 

For  just  one  second  Pansy  watched  with  horror  and  dis- 
tress on  her  face.  Then  she  turned  sharply  and  vanished 
into  her  bedroom.  A  moment  or  so  later  she  was  out  of 
the  hotel  and  runing  swiftly  through  the  silent  garden 
towards  the  shore. 

To  Le  Breton  out  there  with  the  water  choking  his  power- 
ful lungs,  gasping  and  fighting  for  his  life  against  a  death 
that  only  his  own  nerve  and  wit  kept  at  bay,  that  struggle 
seemed  an  eternity. 

All  at  once,  he  was  caught  and  held  from  behind,  just 
on  the  surface  of  the  water;  a  slight  support,  but  sufficient 
to  keep  him  from  going  under  when  the  spasms  were  on. 

Unlike  the  average  swimmer  in  difficulties,  he  did  not 
snatch  at  his  unseen  rescuer.  For  all  his  dire  straits  he 
had  the  presence  of  mind  to  let  his  preserver  alone. 

For  another  ten  minutes  or  more  the  attack  lasted.  Then 
his  muscles  unknotted  and  strength  came  back  to  his 
limbs. 

He  turned  himself  over  to  see  who  had  come  to  his  aid. 

Out  of  the  misty  moonlit  sea  a  young  face  looked  at 
him  from  under  a  mop  of  short  curls. 

<r5Tou  didn't  come  a  moment  too  soon,  my  boy,"  he 
said. 

There  was  a  tired  look  about  Pansy,  but  that  did  not 
prevent  her  dimpling  in  an  effort  not  to  smile.  And  to 
hide  her  mirth  she  dived  suddenly  and  struck  out  towards 
the  land. 

Le  Breton  struck  out  too.     He  reached  the  shore  first. 

Pansy,  however,  did  not  go  in  his  direction.  She  turned 
off  and  landed  where  the  shadows  were  the  thickest. 

From  where  the  man  stood,  he  saw  what  looked  to  be  a 
slim,  fragile  boy  of  about  fourteen,  who  staggered  slightly 
with  fatigue  as  he  made  towards  the  most  shadowed  pair  of 
steps  leading  into  the  hotel  grounds. 

Quickly  Le  Breton  went  towards  his  rescuer,  with  the 
idea  of  lending  a  hand,  for  it  looked  aa  if  the  boy  were 
thoroughly  worn  out. 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA  59 

By  the  time  he  reached  her  Pansy  wa8  leaning  against 
the  wall  under  cover  of  the  thickest  shadows. 

"I'm  afraid  you've  over-exerted  yourself  on  my  account," 
he  said  in  a  solicitous  way. 

"I  don't  usually  get  knocked  out  so  quickly,"  she  re- 
plied. "But  I  had  a  nasty  accident  some  weeks  ago,  and 
I've  not  quite  recovered  yet." 

The  answer  was  in  French,  as  fluent  and  Parisian  as 
his  own. 

"You  must  let  me  help  you  back  to  the  hotel,"  he 
said. 

"Oh  no,  if  s  not  necessary.  I  shall  be  all  right  in  a 
moment." 

"What  you  need,  my  boy,  is  a  dose  of  brandy,"  he  re- 
marked. "That  would  soon  put  you  right." 

Pansy  put  her  hand  to  her  mouth  to  hide  her  smiles.  Her 
short  hair,  pyjamas,  and  the  shadows  had  deceived  him 
completely. 

"It  wouldn't  be  a  bad  idea,"  she  replied;  "but  I  don't 
happen  to  have  any." 

"Ring  for  some,  then,  when  you  get  back  to  the  hotel." 

"I  wouldn't  dream  of  disturbing  people  at  this  hour  of 
the  night,"  she  said  in  an  indignant  tone  of  voice. 

"What  else  are  the  servants  there  for?"  he  asked  in  a 
surprised  and  peremptory  way. 

"They're  not  there  for  me  to  root  out  of  bed  at  two 
o'clock  in  the  morning." 

He  laughed  in  an  amused  manner. 

"I'm  not  eo  considerate  of  menials  as  you  appear  to  be. 
But  tell  me  the  number  of  your  room  and  I'll  bring  you 
some." 

There  was  a  brief  pause. 

Out  from  the  shadows  Pansy  scanned  the  man.  She 
could  not  see  much,  except  that  he  was  big  and  of  splendid 
proportions.  But  he  had  a  well-bred  air,  and  his  deep 
voice,  if  imperious,  was  pleasant  and  cultured. 

Then  her  eyes  started  to  sparkle  with  mischief. 


60  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAEA 

"My  room  is  number  three  on  the  first  floor/*  she  said. 
"Don't  knock;  come  straight  in.  I'll  leave  the  door  ajar. 
I  don't  want  to  disturb  my  neighbours  with  my  midnight 
prowls." 

"Very  well.     I'll  be  there  in  ten  minutes  or  so." 

They  parted  company,  Le  Breton  going  along  the  shore, 
Pansy  up  the  shadowed  steps. 

On  reaching  her  own  room  she  switched  on  the  light. 

Slipping  off  her  sodden  garments,  she  dried  herself  quickly 
and  put  on  a  low-necked,  short-sleeved,  silk  nightgown 
embroidered  with  purple  pansies.  Giving  a  quick,  vigorous 
rub  to  her  curls,  she  opened  the  door  an  inch  or  so.  Then 
she  skipped  into  bed  and  sat  there,  bright-eyed  and  rosy- 
cheeked,  delighted  with  the  surprise  she  had  prepared  for 
Che  man. 

Unaware  of  what  was  in  store  for  him,  Le  Breton  returned 
ta  the  hotel.  Knowing  the  place  well,  he  made  his  way 
noiselessly  along  the  dim,  deserted  corridor  towards  a  door 
that  stood  slightly  ajar,  letting  out  a  sharp  knife  of  light. 
He  was  in  shirt  and  trousers,  and  in  his  hand  he  carried  a 
small  jewelled  flask. 

Without  any  preamble  he  went  into  the  room. 

The  apartment  he  entered  was  a  sumptuous  one  to  aver- 
age eyes,  the  best  the  hotel  boasted. 

On  the  wide  dressing-table  was  a  litter  of  silver  toilet 
appointments,  each  with  a  pansy  in  purple  enamel  on 
it. 

Le  Breton  did  not  give  the  room  a  glance. 

He  had  eyes  for  nothing  but  the  figure  sitting  up  in  bed. 
A.  figure  no  longer  in  pyjamas — they  lay  in  a  wet  heap  in 
the  middle  of  the  floor — but  in  a  pretty  nightgown;  and 
from  beneath  a  flood  of  golden  curls  wide,  purple  eyes  looked 
at  him,  sparkling  with  innocent  mischief. 

It  was  no  boy  who  had  come  to  his  assistance,  but  a  girl ! 
A  lovely  girl  with  a  full,  perfect  mouth,  vividly  red,  a  milk- 
white  skin  and  cheeks  where  roses  bloomed. 

He  backed  slightly  and  locked  the  door,  as  if  the  situa- 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAEA  61 

tion  were  one  he  was  quite  accustomed  to  and  equal  to 
dealing  with. 

'''There's  no  need  to  lock  the  door/'  Pansy  said. 

"It's  on  your  account,  not  mine.  A  little  incident  of 
this  sort  won't  damage  my  reputation." 

"I'd  forgotten  about  my  reputation,"  she  said,  a  note 
of  concern  in  her  voice.  "I  only  thought  about  giving  you 
a  surprise." 

"It  is.  A  most  delightful  one,  too.  In  fact,  I  don't 
think  I've  ever  experienced  anything  quite  so  delightful 
and  unexpected,"  he  responded  drily. 

He  crossed  to  the  bed,  and  stood  looking  at  the  girl  with 
a  critical,  appreciative  air.  And  Pansy  looked  at  him  with 
candid,  friendly  gaze,  taking  stock  of  him  equally. 

He  struck  her  as  being  remarkably  good-looking,  but  his 
expression  was  too  arrogant,  his  mouth  too  hard;  it  even 
had  a  suspicion  of  cruelty.  He  had  an  air,  too,  of  having 
ridden  rough-shod  over  people  all  his  days.  In  spite  of  his 
well-groomed,  well-bred  appearance,  there  was  a  suggestion 
of  the  wild  about  him,  as  if  he  had  never  been  properly 
broken  in. 

There  was  a  brief  silence  as  the  two  surveyed  one  another. 

Le  Breton  was  the  first  to  speak,  and  his  remark  was  of 
a  critical  nature. 

"Why  do  you  wear  your  hair  short?  It  would  suit  you 
far  better  long,  as  a  woman's  hair  ought  to  be." 

"I  like  it  short.     It's  less  trouble." 

There  was  a  note  in  her  voice  as  if  his  or  any  man's 
opinion  about  her  appearance  did  not  worry  her  in  the 
least;  an  air  of  thorough  independence,  out  of  keeping 
with  her  years,  that  he  was  quick  to  notice. 

"Do  you  always  do  as  you  like?"  he  asked. 

"Always.  It's  an  excellent  habit  to  cultivate,  and  one 
you've  cultivated  to  the  fullest  by  the  look  of  you,  since 
criticism  is  the  order  of  the  day,"  she  replied. 

Le  Breton  thought  of  the  desert  kingdom  he  had  ruled 
with  undisputed  sway  for  sixteen  years. 


62  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAEA 

"I  dare  say  I  do  as  I  like  more  than  most  people  you've 
come  across/'  he  answered  with  emphasis. 

Pansy  dimpled. 

There  was  an  air  about  her  visitor  as  if  he  expected  and 
were  accustomed  to  people  standing  in  awe  of  him.  How- 
ever, he  did  not  inspire  her  with  this  feeling,  only  with  a 
desire  to  tease  and  plague  him;  he  was  so  big  and  masterful 
looking,  as  if  he  thought  himself  "monarch  of  all  he  sur- 
veyed," even  herself,  at  that  moment. 

"Are  you  in  the  habit  of  asking  strange  men  to  your 
bedroom  ?"  he  asked  suddenly. 

"If  I  remember  rightly,  you  volunteered  to  come." 

"And  now  I'm  here,  what  am  I  supposed  to  do?" 

"To  be  most  surprised.  To  give  me  a  drink  of  brandy; 
and  then  go,  nicely  and  quietly,  like  a  good  *boy.' '; 

An  amused  look  crossed  Le  Breton's  face.  Innocent  mis- 
chief had  not  come  into  his  life  before. 

"I  am  most  surprised,"  he  said.  "I  flattered  myself  I 
could  tell  a  woman  anywhere." 

"I'm  not  a  woman,  not  until  next  year.  So  that  must 
account  for  your  deplorable  mistake." 

"You  look  even  younger  than  twenty.  Are  you  English 
or  American?" 

"Why  can't  I  have  a  choice  of  being  oither  French  or 
Russian  or  Italian  or  Spanish  or  German  ?" 

"Only  an  English  or  an  American  girl  would  play  this 
sort  of  a  trick.  Not  that  I've  had  any  dealings  with  either. 
I'd  like  to  hear  you  were  American." 

"What's  wrong  with  being  English?" 

"I  dislike  and  despise  the  English,"  he  replied,  a  latent 
note  of  savagery  in  his  deep  voice. 

"Then  you'll  have  to  dislike  and  despise  me,  because  I'm 
one  of  them." 

Pansy  stretched  out  her  hand.  The  action  brought  into 
view  a  network  of  disfiguring  red  ridges  and  Bears  on  her 
upper  arm,  marring  an  otherwise  perfect  limb. 

"Please  give  me  a  drink,"  she  finished. 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAEA  63 

The  excitement  of  the  surprise  she  had  prepared  was  dying 
down,  leaving  her  looking  what  she  really  was — worn  out 
with  the  exertion  of  saving  him. 

Crossing  to  the  wash-stand,  Le  Breton  picked  up  a  glass. 
Pouring  a  small  dose  of  brandy  into  it,  he  added  the  requisite 
water  and  brought  it  back  to  the  girl. 

Then  he  seated  himself  on  the  bedside,  watching  her  as  she 
drank  it. 

"What  a  nasty  scar  you  have  on  your  arm,"  he  remarked, 
•ts  if  any  flaw  on  such  perfection  annoyed  him. 

"I've  worse  scars  here  and  here/'  she  replied,  touching  her 
side  and  thigh;  "and  they  don't  look  at  all  pretty.  "The 
Sultan'  did  them." 

He  started  slightly. 

"The  Sultan!     What  Sultan?" 

"A  brown  Sultan.  A  very  nice  Sultan,  but  we  under- 
stand one  another  now." 

Le  Breton  took  the  girl's  arm  into  his  grip  with  the  light, 
firm,  careful  touch  of  a  man  who  is  used  to  handling  women. 

"They're  the  marks  of  a  horse's  teeth,"  he  remarked  after 
a  brief  survey. 

With  an  air  of  relief,  Pansy  held  the  empty  glass  towards 
him. 

"Thank  goodness  that's  finished.  Now,  with  your  permis- 
sion, I'll  go  to  sleep." 

He  took  the  glass,  placing  it  on  a  table  near;  but  he  did 
not  move  from  his  seat  on  the  bedside. 

"You  must  tell  me  your  name,"  he  said. 

"You'll  find  out  quite  soon  enough  without  my  telling  you. 
It's  not  at  all  necessary  for  me  to  advertise  myself  nowadays." 

"Won't  you  tell  me?"  he  asked  in  a  cajoling  tone. 

Pansy  shook  her  head. 

"Then  I  must  find  a  name  for  you,"  he  said.  "A  flower 
name  would  suit  you  admirably.  Let  me  see,  what  do  you 
call  the  flower  in  English?" 

He  hesitated. 

"Pansy,"  he  finished,  after  a  moment's  thought. 


64  A  SON  OP  THE  SAHAKA 

"But  why  Tansy'  specially?"  she  asked,  smiling  at  him. 
"Why  not  Lily  or  Rose  or  May,  since  I'm  to  be  given  a  stupid 
flower  name?" 

"There  are  pansies  in  your  eyes,  on  your  nightgown,  on 
the  appointments  of  your  dressing-table,  on  your  handker- 
chief here." 

With  a  deeply  bronzed  hand  he  touched  a  scrap  of  em- 
broidered muslin  that  peeped  out  from  beneath  her  pillow 
and  which  had  a  pansy  worked  on  it  in  one  corner. 

Pansy  laughed,  amused  at  his  perception. 

"Now,  I'm  too  tired  to  entertain  you  any  longer,"  she 
said.  "Good  night,  and  thank  you  for  bringing  the  brandy." 

Le  Breton  was  not  accustomed  to  being  dismissed  when  he 
was  prepared  to  stay. " 

"Are  you  really  anxious  to  get  rid  of  me  ?"  he  asked. 

"Most  anxious.     I'm  dying  to  go  to  sleep." 

In  a  reluctant  manner  he  got  to  his  feet. 

Stooping  over  the  bed,  he  gave  a  caressing  pat  to  the  tired, 
small  face. 

"Good  night,  Pansy,  little  flower,"  he  said  softly.  "I'll 
go  if  you  really  want  me  to,  but  I'm  not  in  the  habit  of  going 
unless  I  want  to." 

"What  an  autocrat  you  sound !  And  please — don't  forget 
my  reputation.  I  can't  afford  to  lose  it  so  early  in  life." 

There  was  anxiety  in  the  girl's  voice,  for  all  her  light 
tone. 

"Your  reputation  will  be  quite  safe  with  me,"  he  said. 

He  stood  for  a  moment  watching  her,  an  amused  expres- 
sion lurking  in  his  dark,  fiery  eyes.  Then  he  turned  and, 
switching  off  the  light,  went  noiselessly  from  the  room. 

It  was  not  until  he  had  gone  that  Pansy  recollected  that 
he  had  touched  her  twice  and  she  had  not  minded  or  re- 
proved him,  and  usually  she  very  strongly  resented  being 
touched  by  men.  And  it  was  not  until  Le  Breton  reached 
his  villa  that  he  remembered  the  girl  had  not  even  troubled 
to  ask  his  name.  In  fact,  once  the  trick  had  been  played, 
her  only  desire  had  been  to  get  him  out  of  the  room. 


CHAPTER  V 

IN  one  of  the  private  sitting-rooms  of  the  hotel,  Miss 
Grainger  was  lolling  back  in  a  comfortable  wicker  chair  read- 
ing a  newspaper. 

The  door  opening  made  her  look  round. 

A  slim,  boyish  figure  entered  the  room,  clad  in  a  well-cut 
white  riding  suit,  the  neatest  of  brown  boots  and  leggings, 
and  a  wliite  felt  hat  pulled  well  on  to  a  mop  of  curls. 

"You're  late  starting  this  morning,  Pansy." 

"I  am.     But — last  night  I  saved  a  man's  life." 

"Saved  a  man's  life!  Really,  my  dear,  what  a  way  you 
have  of  springing  surprises  on  one." 

Teasingly  Pansy  glanced  at  her  old  governess. 

"Miss  Grainger,  I  must  remind  you  that  'springing  sur- 
prises' is  slang." 

Miss  Grainger  ignored  the  reprimand. 

"But  what  man  did  you  save,  and  how  did  you  save  him  ?" 
she  asked  in  a  slightly  bewildered  manner. 

"I  forgot  to  ask  his  name.  I  fished  him  out  of  the  sea. 
He  had  cramps." 

"But  he  might  have -dragged  you  under!"  her  companion 
said  in  a  horrified  voice.  "I  should  have  thought  that  last 
experience  of  yours  with  that  awful  horse  would  have  taught 
you  not  to  go  diving  headlong  into  danger." 

"  'The  Sultan'  isn't  awful.  You  know  it  was  all  a  mis- 
take on  his  part.  Besides,  nothing  will  keep  me  from  'diving 
headlong  into  danger,'  as  you  call  it,  when  I  see  things  being 
hurt.  It's  all  part  of  my  silly,  impetuous  nature." 

"Well,  I  hope  the  man  was  grateful.  He  never  even 
thanked  me." 

Such  gross  ingratitude  left  Miss  Grainger  aghast. 

"My  dear!"  she  exclaimed. 

65 


66  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAEA 

"He  thought  I  was  a  boy,  and  when  he  found  I  was  a 
girl  he  was  too  astonished  to  remember  his  manners/'  Pansy 
explained.  "But  don't  say  anything  about  it  to  anybody. 
You  know  I  hate  a  fuss." 

"What  was  he  like?" 

"Big  and  dark  and  awfully  good-looking,  with  an  arro- 
gant, high-handed  manner.  He  badly  needed  taking  down 
a  peg  or  two." 

"Quite  different  from  Captain  Cameron,"  Miss  Grainger 
suggested. 

"Oh,  quite.     Bob's  a  kid  beside  him." 

There  was  a  brief  pause. 

Miss  Grainger  glanced  at  the  girl. 

"Do  you  know,  Pansy,  I'm  sorry  for  Captain  Cameron." 

"So  am  I,"  the  girl  replied,  a  touch  of  distress  in  her 
voice.  "But  my  sorrow  refuses  to  blossom  into  love." 

"He's  a  very  good  sort." 

"I  know;  but  then  I'm  not  given  to  falling  in  love." 

"Some  day  you'll  find  yourself  in  love  before  you  know  it." 

Pansy  smiled  at  her  old  governess  in  a  merry,  whole- 
hearted fashion. 

"What  a  persistent  bird  of  ill-omen  you  are!"  she  said. 

Then  she  glanced  at  the  clock. 

"Now  I'm  off.  I  shan't  be  back  for  lunch.  So-long," 
she  finished. 

She  went,  leaving  Miss  Grainger  with  the  feeling  of  a 
fresh,  sweet  breeze  having  been  wafted  through  the  room. 


CHAPTER  VI 

IN  the  large  palm-decked  patio  of  the  hotel,  Le  Breton  sat 
sipping  coffee  as  he  went  through  the  newspapers  solicitous 
waiters  had  placed  on  a  table  at  his  elbow.  It  was  not 
often  he  came  to  the  hotel,  but  when  he  did  the  whole  staff 
was  at  his  disposal,  for  he  scattered  largess  with  a  liberal 
hand.  He  had  lunched  there,  his  gaze  wandering  over  the 
crowded  dining-room  as  if  in  search  of  someone;  and  after- 
wards he  had  stayed  on. 

It  was  now  about  three  in  the  afternoon,  an  hour  when 
the  patio  was  practically  deserted. 

As  he  sat  there  reading,  Pansy  entered  the  big  hall,  still 
in  breeches  and  leggings,  just  as  she  had  returned  from  her 
ride.  She  would  have  passed  through  the  patio  without 
coming  within  his  vision,  except  that  something  about  the 
smooth  black  head  was  familiar. 

So  she  changed  her  route  and  went  in  Le  Breton's  direc- 
tion instead. 

"Have  you  gotten  over  your  disappointment?"  she  asked. 

In  an  unperturbed  manner  he  looked  round.  Then  he 
got  to  his  feet  leisurely,  surveying  the  slim,  boyish  figure 
with  disapproval. 

Pansy  stood  with  her  hands  deep  in  her  pockets,  smiling 
at  him,  a  smile  that  deepened  under  his  lack  of  appreciation 
of  her  attire. 

"What  disappointment?"  he  asked. 

"Of  finding  I  was  a  girl  you  had  to  be  polite  to  instead 
of  a  boy  you  could  bully." 

"I'm  inclined  to  go  back  to  my  first  impression,"  he 
said. 

"Don't  you  like  my  get-up?" 

67 


68  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA 

"Decidedly  I  do  not.  Why  don't  you  wear  something 
feminine?  Not  go  about  masquerading  as  a  man." 

Adverse  criticism  rarely  came  Pansy's  way. 

She  laughed. 

"What  a  back  number  you  are!  All  women  ride  in 
Dreeches  nowadays.  But,  since  you  don't  approve  of  me, 
come  along  and  see  if  you  like  'The  Sultan'  any  better. 
You  were  most  interested  in  his  mark  and  seal." 

There  was  an  air  about  her  as  if  she  never  expected  to 
be  gainsaid  if  she  felt  like  favouring  a  man,  for  she  turned 
at  once  and  led  the  way  towards  the  main  entrance. 

Picking  up  his  hat,  Le  Breton  followed. 

Once  outside,  he  said: 

"I've  not  yet  thanked  you  for  saving  my  life." 

"I  couldn't  do  less  than  lend  a  hand/'  she  replied  with 
a  casual  air. 

"It  was  a  risky  thing  to  do.  I  might  have  dragged  you 
under." 

"Well,  you  didn't.  And  we're  neither  of  us  any  the 
worse  for  the  little  adventure." 

"I  hope  we  shall  be  all  the  better.  That  we  shall  be 
excellent  friends,"  he  replied. 

Then  he  drew  a  leather  case  from  his  pocket  and  held  it 
towards  her. 

"I've  brought  you  a  little  memento,"  he  finished. 

With  inquisitive  hands  Pansy  took  the  case  and  snapped 
it  open.  Inside  was  a  string  of  pearls  worth  at  least  £500. 
He  watched  the  girl  as  she  opened  the  case,  but  none  of 
the  coos  of  delight  and  surprise  at  his  generosity,  that  he 
expected  and  was  accustomed  to  under  such  circumstances, 
were  forthcoming.  Instead,  she  closed  the  case  and  handed 
it  back  to  him. 

"It's  very  pretty,  and  very  kind  of  you  to  think  of  it," 
she  said.  "But  I  couldn't  keep  it." 

To  have  his  gift  thrust  back  on  him  was  the  last  thing" 
Le  Breton  was  prepared  for  or  desired. 

"Why  not?"  he  asked  abruptly. 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA  69 

"I  never  take  presents  from  men,  but  I  appreciate  your 
kindness  all  the  same." 

He  glanced  at  her,  a  peculiar  look  at  the  back  of  his  eyes. 

To  get  off  the  topic  Pansy  hurried  forward. 

From  a  building  close  at  hand  there  came  a  gentle 
whinny. 

"That's  'The  Sultan/  she  remarked.  "He  hears  me 
coming." 

When  the  stables  came  into  view,  over  the  open  door  of 
a  box  a  long  brown  head  and  neck  were  seen  stretched 
towards  the  approaching  girl. 

"I'm  going  to  let  him  out,"  she  said;  "but  you  mustn't 
come  too  close.  He  hates  strangers;  and  so  should  I  if 
I'd  been  through  the  hell  he's  been  through." 

Le  Breton  laughed,  as  if  anyone,  more  especially  the  slim 
girl  with  him,  telling  him  to  be  careful  of  anything  in  the 
shape  of  a  horse  had  its  intensely  funny  side. 

As  Pansy  opened  the  door  his  glance  ran  swiftly  over  the 
animal. 

It  was  a  huge,  gaunt  beast,  a  chestnut,  with  wild,  roving 
eyes;  a  great,  vicious-looking  creature,  well  on  in  years  and 
undoubtedly  an  old  race-horse,  for  speed  was  written  all  over 
it.  And  on  it,  too,  were  scars  and  weals  that  spoke  of  past 
ill-treatment. 

Pansy  kissed  its  soft  nose,  and  patted  and  stroked  it  and 
pulled  its  ears ;  and  the  great  animal  fawned  on  her. 

Then  she  led  it  out,  keeping  a  tight  grip  on  its  mane. 
For  it  bared  its  teeth  at  Le  Breton,  and  stood  shivering  and 
expectant,  as  if  suspecting  every  man's  hand  to  be  against  it. 

He,  however,  ignored  its  attentions  and  came  closer.  But 
it  swung  round  and  lashed  at  him  with  iron  heels. 

"Oh,  do  be  careful !      Don't  come  so  close,"  Pansy  cried. 

In  spite  of  its  snarls  and  the  iron  hoofs,  she  kept  her 
grip  on  its  mane.  But  neither  teeth  nor  hoofs,  were  in  her 
direction. 

Ignoring  her  entreaties,  Le  Breton  came  closer,  all  the 
time  talking  to  the  horse  gently  in  a  strange  language. 


70  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA 

The  animal  seemed  to  recognize  a  friend.  It  quietened 
down  suddenly,  and  stretched  a  long  neck  in  his  direction. 
Still  talking,  he  patted  and  stroked  it.  The  horse  sub- 
mitted to  his  attentions,  and  before  many  moments  had 
passed  was  rubbing  its  nose  against  him. 

All  interest,  Pansy  watched  the  two  make  friends. 

"What  are  you  saying  to  him?"  she  asked.  "Usually  he 
won't  let  a  stranger  near  him." 

"I  was  talking  to  him  in  the  language  all  race-horses 
understand — Arabic,"  he  replied.  "But  how  did  you  come 
by  such  a  brute?" 

The  animal  was  of  the  type  only  the  most  hardened  of 
stable-men  could  handle;  the  very  last  horse  for  a  girl 
to  ride. 

"I  dropped  across  him  quite  by  accident." 

Le  Breton  thought  of  the  scars  he  had  seen  on  the  girl' a 
arm,  and  he  had  heard  there  were  others  and  worse  beyond 
his  view. 

"I  should  say  it  was  'by  accident,'"  he  remarked  drily. 
"I'd  like  to  hear  the  story." 

Pansy  patted  the  big  horse  fondly. 

"We  met  in  a  London  slum,"  she  said.  "I  happened 
to  be  passing  a  stable  yard  when  I  heard  a  noise  like  a 
horse  being  hurt  or  frightened,  and  men  laughing.  So  I 
opened  the  gate  and  went  in.  There  was  poor  old  Sultan 
tied  up  in  one  corner  and  half  a  dozen  roughs  baiting  him, 
all  the  time  taking  good  care  not  to  get  within  his  reach, 
for  he  was  almost  mad  with  terror  and  rage  and  ill-treat- 
ment. I  told  them  what  I  thought,  and  in  the  telling  I 
got  too  close  to  'The  Sultan,'  and  he  grabbed  me  by  the 
arm.  In  ten  minutes  he  had  made  such  a  mess  of  me  that 
it  took  a  month  to  patch  me  up.  And  the  men  were  such 
cowards  that  they  never  tried  to  rescue  me.  It  was  'The 
Sultan'  himself  who  seemed  to  realise  he'd  set  on  his  best 
friend,  for  he  stopped  chewing  me,  and  stood  sniffing  at  me., 
and  let  me  crawl  away.  And  I  didn't  remember  anything 
more  until  I  found  myself  back  home.  Then  I  remembered 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAEA  71 

the  poor  horse  left  to  the  mercy  of  those  cruel  wretches ;  and 
I  sent  someone  along  to  buy  him  and  take  him  away  from 
his  awful  surroundings.  It  was  so  obvious  he  had  known 
better  days,  although  he  had  sunk  right  down  to  dragging 
some  East  End  coal  higglers  cart.  The  first  time  I  was  al- 
lowed out  I  went  to  his  paddock  and  had  a  look  at  him. 
And  I'm  sure  he  knew  me.  He  stretched  his  long  neck  over 
the  gate  and  sniffed  and  snuffed  at  me  and  seemed  quite 
conscience-stricken.  At  the  end  of  a  fortnight  I  was  on  his 
back,  and  now  I  take  him  everywhere  I  go,  as  he  gets  wor- 
ried if  he  doesn't  see  me  about.  He  can't  believe  his  awful 
days  are  over  unless  I'm  here  to  reassure  him." 

As  Pansy  told  the  tale  she  leant  against  the  big  horse; 
and  she  told  it  as  if  her  own  hurts  were  nothing. 

"And  you  took  him  into  your  favour  after  he  had  treated 
you  so  abominably !"  Le  Breton  said. 

"I  couldn't  be  hard  on  him  for  what  was  the  result  of 
his  awful  surroundings." 

"You  are  very  magnanimous." 

Pansy  smiled. 

"You'll  forgive  me  for  not  accepting  that  pretty  necklace, 
won't  you?"  she  asked. 

"Some  day,  when  we  know  each  other  better,  you'll  honour 
me  by  accepting  it,"  he  said. 

He  spoke  to  the  girl  now  as  if  she  were  his  equal,  not  just 
some  pretty  toy  he  happened  to  have  fancied. 

"I  never  take  anything  from  men — except  perhaps  a  few 
flowers." 

There  was  a  subtle  contempt  for  his  sex  in  her  voice 
which  Le  Breton  was  quick  to  note. 

"So  you  despise  men?" 

"Not  that  exactly,  but  I've  had  rather  an  overdose  of 
them.  Since  I've  been  here,  Sultan  and  I  go  off  early  every 
morning  usually,  and  are  miles  away  before  there  are  any 
men  about  to  bother  us." 

With  this  Pansy  turned  and  led  the  horse  back  to  its  box. 
.'"Now,"  she  said,  when  this  was  done,  "I  mustn't  keep 


72  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAEA 

you.  Good-bye,  and  I'm  glad  you're  none  the  worse  for 
last  night." 

Again  Le  Breton  was  dismissed  when  he  would  have  lin- 
gered. And  on  this  second  meeting  she  still  had  not  trou- 
bled to  ask  his  name. 

There  was  a  curious  glint  in  his  eyes  as  they  rested  on 
the  slim,  white,  indifferent  figure  of  the  girl  who  was  making 
her  way  back  to  *he  hotel  without  a  further  glance  in  his 
direction. 


CHAPTER  VII 

AT  six  o'clock  in  the  morning  the  road  that  joins  the  port 
and  the  city  of  Las  Palmas  shows  very  little  sign  of  the 
peaceful  English  invasion.  It  is  given  over  to  the  Islanders. 
To  peasant  women  with  baskets  of  produce  on  their  heads; 
to  men  driving  .donkeys  laden  with  fruit  and  vegetables, 
and  creaking  bullock  carts. 

The  early  morning  was  Pansy's  favourite  time;  the 
world  was  a  place  of  dew  and  brightness  with  the  sun 
glinting  gold  on  sandy  hills  and  air  that  sparkled  like 
champagne. 

She  trotted  along  on  her  big  horse  towards  the  white 
city,  its  flat  roofs,  low  houses  and  palms  giving  it  an 
oriental  aspect.  Eiding  through  the  town,  she  crossed  a 
wide  bridge  and  went  upwards  through  a  grove  of  palms, 
past  banana  gardens,  into  a  deserted  world,  with  a  blue 
sky  overhead  and  an  endless  stretch  of  sea  behind. 

As  she  mounted  higher,  the  hill  grew  vine-clad,  and 
great  ragged  eucalyptus  trees  stood  in  tatters  by  the  road- 
side. Here  and  there  was  a  stunted  pine,  the  deep  green 
of  a  walnut  tree,  a  clump  of  bamboo,  a  palm  and  occasion- 
ally, a  great  patch  of  prickly  cacti,  whose  flaming  flowers 
stood  out  red  against  a  dazzling  day. 

She  rode  without  spurs  or  whip,  when  necessary  urging 
her  horse  with  hand  and  voice  only. 

A  village  was  reached,  where  black-browed  men  in  slouch 
hats  and  blanket  cloaks  lounged  in  groups,  smoking  and 
gossiping,  and  swarthy  women  with  bright  handkerchiefs 
around  their  heads  stared  at  the  girl  astride  the  big 
horse. 

In  the  dust  of  the  road  a  little  group  of  half-clad,  bare- 
footed children  dragged  a  trio  of  unfortunate  lizards  along 

73 


74  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA 

by  strings  around  their  necks,  and  screamed  with  delight 
at  the  writhings  of  the  tortured  reptiles. 

The  sight  brought  a  look  of  distress  to  Pansy's  face. 

Eeining  in  her  horse,  she  slipped  of  and  went  towards 
the  group. 

In  indifferent  Spanish  she  gave  a  brief  lecture  on  cruelty. 
There  was  a  sprinkling  .of  small  coins,  and  the  lizards 
changed  owners. 

Pansy  stooped.  Loosening  the  strings  from  their  soft 
throats,  she  picked  them  out  of  the  dust.  They  were  pretty, 
harmless  little  things,  each  about  eighteen  inches  long  and 
bright  green  in  colour,  that  hung  limp  in  her  gentle  hands, 
and  looked  at  her  with  tortured  eyes.  Holding  them  care- 
fully, she  went  back  to  her  horse,  and  with  the  reins  over 
her  arm,  made  her  way  through  the  village. 

Once  well  out  of  sight  of  the  place,  she  seated  herself 
on  a  bank  at  the  side  of  the  road,  and  laid  the  three  limp 
little  forms  on  a  warm,  flat,  sunny  rock.  Then  she  tried 
to  coax  them  back  to  life  and  their  normal  state  of  bright 
friskiness. 

As  she  sat  rubbing,  with  a  gentle  forefinger,  their  soft, 
panting  throats,  crooning  over  them  with  pitying  words,  too 
intent  on  her  task  to  notice  what  was  going  on  around  her, 
a  deep  voice  said  with  an  unexpectedness  that  made  her 
jump : 

"They'll  do  exactly  the  same  with  the  next  lizards  they 
catch." 

She  looked  round  quickly. 

In  the  middle  of  the  road,  mounted  on  a  huge  black 
horse,  was  the  man  whose  life  she  had  saved. 

Pansy's  gaze  rested  on  him  for  a  moment  before  she 
replied.  He  made  such  a  picture  on  the  black  horse,  with 
his  strong,  sunburnt  face  and  well-cut  khaki  riding  suit; 
the  most  perfect  combination  of  horse  and  man  she  had 
ever  seen. 

"I  know  they  will,"  she  said.  "But  still,  I've  done  my 
best  for  these  three." 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA  75 

"Do  you  always  try  to  do  your  best  for  everything  that 
comes  your  way,  Pansy?"  he  asked  tenderly. 

"Only  a  few  privileged  people  are  allowed  to  call  me 
'Pansy/  "  she  said  tartly. 

"What  else  can  I  call  you,  since  you  refuse  to  tell  me 
your  name  ?" 

"You  mean  to  say  you  haven't  found  out  yet?"  she 
exclaimed. 

"I  never  gossip,"  he  replied  in  a  haughty  tone. 

"I  don't  know  yours,"  she  answered,  "so  we're  what  is 
called  in  English  'quits.' ': 

"What  exactly  does  'quits'  mean?  I  don't  know  much 
English." 

As  Pansy  petted  the  lizards  she  explained  the  meaning 
of  the  word.  During  the  explanation  one  of  her  proteges 
recovered,  and  darted  off  in  a  most  thankless  manner  into 
a  crevice  in  the  rocks. 

"My  name  is  Le  Breton,"  he  said  when  he  had  grasped 
her  meaning.  "Eaoul  Le  Breton." 

Pansy  stared  at  him. 

She  had  surprised  him  on  the  occasion  of  their  first 
meeting,  but  he  had  turned  the  tables  on  her. 

During  her  stay  in  Teneriffe  she  had  heard  of  Raoul  Le 
Breton.  He  was  a  French  millionaire,  an  African  merchant 
prince,  so  rumour  said. 

She  had  had  a  feeling  that  he  had  followed  her  that 
morning,  and  she  was  inclined  to  be  angry  about  it.  Now 
she  saw  that  if  he  sought  her  out,  it  was  not  from  mercenary 
motives,  since  he  was  quite  as  wealthy  as  she  was.  What 
was  more  he  had  no  idea  who  she  was. 

"I'm  always  interested  in  millionaires,"  she  said,  a 
mischievous  glint  in  her  eyes. 

"All  women  are,"  he  responded  grimly. 

"But  you're  not  the  only  millionaire  in  the  islands," 
she  remarked. 

"So  I've  gathered.  There  is,  or  was,  one  here  quite 
recently.  An  Englishwoman  of  the  name  of  Langnam. 


76  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAEA 

I  detest  women  with  money.  They  are  invariably  ugly  and 
conceited." 

Pansy  laughed — a  ripple  of  sheer  enjoyment. 

"Perhaps  their  independence  annoys  you/'  she  sug- 
gested. "I  believe  you're  what  is  known  as  the  'masterful' 
type." 

With  that,  her  attention  went  back  to  the  lizards. 

Dismounting,  Le  Breton  came  to  her  side. 

"You  speak  French  remarkably  well,"  he  commented, 
as  the  moments  passed  and  no  notice  was  taken  of  him. 

"I  was  educated  in  Paris." 

She  glanced  at  him,  her  eyes  brimming  with  mischief. 
and,  as  she  glanced,  another  of  her  proteges  frisked  thank- 
lessly away. 

"Wouldn't  you  like  to  know  my  name?"  she  asked. 

"At  present  it's  sufficient  that  you  are  Tansy.' 
'Heart's  Ease/  don't  you  say  in  English?" 

"I  wish  I  could  ease  this  one  poor  little  beast/'  she  said, 
touching  the  remaining  lizard.  "But  I  fear  it's  hurt  beyond 
redemption." 

Stooping  he  picked  up  the  little  reptile  and  examined 
it.  It  hung  limp  in  his  grasp;  a  hopeless  case. 

"The  best  thing  to  do  with  it  is  to  kill  it,"  he  com- 
mented. 

"Oh,  I  couldn't,"  she  said  quickly. 

But  it  appeared  he  could.  He  went  some  distance 
away  from  the  girl  and  placed  the  lizard  on  a  flat  rock. 
In  a  moment  he  had  ground  all  tortured  life  out  of  it 
with  his  heel. 

"Thank  you,"  she  said  gratefully.  "I  knew  it  was 
suffering,  but  I  couldn't  have  done  that  to  save  my 
life.  As  a  reward,  will  you  come  and  have  breakfast  with 
me?" 

"There's  nothing  I  should  like  better/'  he  answered. 

Pansy  got  to  her  feet. 

He  helped  her  to  mount.  Then  he  rode  at  he?  side  up  the 
hill. 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAEA  77 

"I  love  the  clear  heights/'  she  remarked  presently. 

"I  don't  know  much  about  them.  The  miry  depths 
are  more  in  my  line,"  he  replied. 

Critically  she  surveyed  him. 

"You  don't    look  so  specially  muddy." 

"No?  What  do  I  look  like— to  you?"  he  asked,  a 
caressing  note  in  his  voice. 

"Very  proud,  very  passionate,  very  strong,  and  as  if 
you  could  be  cruel." 

"Then  I  can't  look  very  attractive,"  he  said,  smiling 
slightly. 

"Being  proud  is  all  right,  so  long  as  it  makes  you  too 
proud  to  do  mean  things." 

"And  what  about  the  passionate?"  he  asked,  "since 
you're  making  excuses  for  me. 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  it." 

"Well,  what  about  my  being  strong  then?" 

"I  don't  like  men  unless  they  are." 

"And  the  cruelty?" 

"I  hate  it." 

"Life  sometimes  combines  to  make  people  cruel  who 
otherwise  might  not  be,"  he  remarked,  as  if  unaccustomed 
to  finding  excuses  for  himself.  "You  can't  judge  a  person 
fairly  until  you  know  all  that  has  gone  to  form  their 
character." 

Pansy  patted  her  gaunt  steed. 

"I  know  that,"  she  said,  "that's  why  I  stuck  to  'The 
Sultan'  when  my  friends  tried  to  persuade  me  to  have 
him  shot.  There's  a  lot  in  his  life  that  I  don't  know. 
These  marks  tell  me  that." 

She  pointed  to  the  various  old  scars  on  the  animal. 

"Now  you  shall  ;see  what  'The  Sultan'  can  do,"  she 
went  on.  "I'll  race  you  to  the  farm  over  there,  where 
breakfast  is  waiting,"  she  finished,  pointing  to  a  green 
patch  away  in  the  distance. 

A  touch  of  her  spurless  heel  sent  the  gaunt  beast  flying 
along  the  dusty,  deserted  road,  in  a  long,  loping  gallop 


78  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAEA 

that  grew  more  and  more  rapid,  egged  on  by  the  sound 
of  another  horse  persistently  at  his  heels. 

Pansy  had  not  expected  that  her  escort  would  be  able 
to  keep  up  with  her.  No  horse  she  had  met  could  keep  pace 
with  her  protege.  At  the  end  of  half  a  mile  she  had  been 
prepared  to  rein  up  and  wait  for  Le  Breton. 

But  at  the  end  of  a  mile  he  was  a  length  behind  her. 
And  at  the  end  of  two  he  was  there  just  the  same. 

Pansy  tired  before  either  the  man  or  the  horses. 

"Oh!"  she  panted,  as  Le  Breton  drew  up  beside  her. 
"I  wasn't  trained  as  a  jockey." 

"You  didn't  get  away  from  me  quite  so  easily  as  you 
expected,"  he  remarked  with  curious  emphasis. 

"I  didn't  know  there  was  a  horse  in  the  Islands  to  touch 
'The  Sultan/  in  spite  of  his  years." 

"This  horse  I'm  on  has  won  several  races  in  Paris.  And 
you  challenged  me,  Pansy,  without  pausing  to  consider 
what  you  might  be  let  in  for,"  he  said,  watching  her  in  a 
fierce,  fond  manner. 

"I  always  leap  before  I  look.  It's  my  besetting  sin," 
she  replied. 

Then  she  pointed  to  a  side  track,  leading  to  a  low  building, 
half  white-washed  mud,  half  timber. 

"That's  the  way  to  my  farm,"  she  said.  "But  I  don't 
know  that  my  breakfast  will  appeal  to  millionaires." 

"Don't  thrust  that  down  my  throat  just  now,"  he 
answered.  "I  want  to  see  life  from  your  point  of  view." 

The  farm  they  were  approaching  was  a  tiny  place,  with 
a  spreading  garden  where  orange  and  fig  trees  grew.  In 
one  corner  a  little  summer-house  stood,  wreathed  with 
red  roses,  that  gave  a  wide  view  of  the  island  and  a  glimpse 
of  the  sea. 

Evidently  Pansy  was  expected.  A  coarse  white  cloth 
was  spread  on  the  table  in  the  summer-house,  and  it  was 
set  with  thick  crockery  and  leaden-looking  forks  and 
spoons. 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAEA  79 

Leaving  Le  Breton  to  attend  to  the  horses,  she  made 
her  way  to  the  tiny  homestead,  to  announce  her  presence 
and  the  fact  of  a  guest. 

Then  she  passed  on  towards  the  summer-house. 

Tossing  her  hat  on  a  seat,  she  sat  with  the  light  glinting 
on  her  golden  curls,  her  elbows  on  the  table,  watching  the 
scene  dreamily,  in  a  frame  of  red  roses. 

This  vision  of  her  greeted  Le  Breton  as  he  turned  the 
corner,  bringing  a  hungry  glint  to  his  eyes. 

Breakfast  proved  a  simple  repast. 

There  was  a  thick  jug  full  of  coffee,  another  of  milk,  a 
large  omelet,  a  dish  of  fruit,  rolls,  butter  and  honey. 

"Now,"  she  said  when  it  was  set  before  them,  "how 
do  you  like  your  coffee?" 

"As  it  should  be  according  to  the  orientals — black  as 
sin,  hot  as  hell,  sweet  as — love,"  he  finished,  lingering  over 
the  word. 

She  poured  his  out,  and  handed  it  to  him,  black  as  he 
desired. 

"I  can  get  on  very  well  without  either  the  sin  or  the 
love,"  she  remarked  as  she  helped  herself  to  a  cup  that  was 
mostly  milk,  and  with  no  sugar  in  it. 

"I  thought  all  girls  liked  sweet  things  and  lived  for  love," 
he  said  as  he  set  about  serving  the  omelet. 

"There's  a  lot  more  in  life  for  women  nowadays  than 
love." 

"Being  in  love  is  a  woman's  normal  condition,"  he  said 
in  a  forcible,  dogmatic  manner. 

Pansy  smiled. 

"I  always  thought  you  had  come  out  of  the  Ark,  and 
now  I'm  sure  of  it.  You've  got  such  antiquated,  early 
Victorian  ideas  about  women.  They  mustn't  wear  knickers. 
They  must  always  be  yearning  after  some  mere  male. 
Very  flattering  to  him,  I'm  sure,"  she  finished,  wrinkling 
a  disdainful  nose. 

Le  Breton's  gaze  rested  on  the  vivid,  beautiful  little 
€ace,  with  the  full,  perfect,  generous  mouth,  telling  of  an 


80  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAEA 

unselfish,  disinterested  nature  that  would  love  swiftly  and 
deeply. 

"Some  day  you'll  find  yourself  in  love  before  you  know 
it/'  he  commented. 

"So  other  people  have  said.  And  it  makes  me  horribly 
nervous  at  times.  Like  a  blind  man  walking  on  the  edge 
of  a  precipice/' 

"So  long  as  you  fell  in  love  with  a  man  who  could  ap- 
preciate you,  it  would  be  all  right, — a  man  sufficiently  versed 
in  women  to  know  you  have  qualities  beyond  your  beauty  to 
recommend  you." 

With  some  surprise  Pansy  glanced  at  him. 

A  soft  heart  lay  beneath  her  light  manner.  Quite  half 
her  income  was  spent  for  the  benefit  of  others.  She  won- 
dered how  he  knew  about  these  "qualities/'  considering 
their  brief  acquaintance.  And  she  wondered,  too,  why  she 
was  sitting  there  discussing  love  with  him;  a  subject  she 
never  would  let  any  man  approach,  if  it  could  be  avoided. 
She  put  it  down  to  the  fact  that  her  identity  was  unknown 
to  him,  and  she  could  talk  to  him  freely,  knowing  her 
millions  were  no  temptation. 

"One  thing,"  she  said  mischievously,  "money  will 
never  attract  me.  I've  no  expensive  tastes.  I  like 
views  and  flowers  and  sunsets.  Moons  and  stars  and 
seas  and  sago  pudding.  Horses  and  chocolates  and — 
my  own  way.  All  things  that  don't  require  a  tremendous 
income." 

There  was  a  brief  silence. 

In  a  calculating  manner  Le  Breton  watched  her.  She 
was  a  new  type  to  him;  a  girl  who  could  not  be  approached 
in  the  way  most  women  could  be — by  the  easy  route  of 
costly  presents. 

The  air  was  heavy  with  the  scent  of  roses.  In  the  dis- 
tance a  guitar  was  playing;  a  throb  of  melody,  faint  and 
seductive,  that  fed  the  craving  in  the  man'g  heart. 

Pansy  glanced  at  him. 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA  81 

"How  quiet  you  are  all  at  once.  What  are  you  thinking 
about?" 

"Ways  and  means,"  he  replied,  smiling  slightly. 

"I  thought  only  hard-up  people  were  troubled  in  that 
way." 

"The  trouble  with  me  now  is  that  I  want  something 
which  I  fear  can't  be  bought  with  money." 

"What  an  unpleasant  position  for  a  millionaire  to  be  in. 
Still,  it  makes  you  'realise  your  limitations,'  as  on  old 
governess  of  mine  used  to  say." 

She  paused  for  a  moment,  watching  him  with  an  air  of 
subtle  mockery. 

"And,  Mr.  Le  Breton,  it  won't  do  you  any  harm  to  have 
to  go  without  a  few  of  the  things  you  want.  There's  a 
look  about  you  as  if  you  always  had  things  too  much  your 
own  way." 

"I'm  not  so  sure  yet  that  I'm  going  to  do  without  it. 
Fortunately  I  have  two  other  courses  left  open  to  me — 
persuasion  and  power,"  he  replied. 

"Power!     I  thought  that  was  the  prerogative  of  kings." 

Le  Breton  said  nothing.  He  knew  if  this  English  girl 
had  any  idea  who  he  was,  she  would  not  be  sitting  there 
talking  to  him  so  freely.  Although  he  was  the  Sultan  of 
El-Ammeh,  in  the  eyes  of  her  nation  he  was  a  "nigger." 

There  was  a  further  silence  which  Pansy  broke. 

"What  made  you  swim  out  all  those  miles  the  other 
night?"  she  asked. 

"I  get  moods  when  I  want  to  lose  the  earth  and  find  a 
heaven  to  my  own  liking." 

"What  sort  of  heaven  would  that  be?" 

"Where  there  would  be  only  one  houri,  and  she  all- 
sufficing." 

"A  houri?  Why  that's  a  sort  of  Mohammedan  angel- 
woman." 

Evidently  Le  Breton*  was  in  a  confessional  mood,  for 
he  said: 


82  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAEA 

"Nowadays  I  often  wonder  what  use  my  life  is.  There's 
no  pleasure  in  it  except,  perhaps — women." 

"So  long  as  it's  'women/  it's  all  right1.  The  trouble 
starts  when  it  comes  to — 'woman.'" 

These  words  from  the  innocent  girl's  lips  made  him 
laugh. 

"Who  told  you  that?"  he  asked. 

"Captain  Cameron.  He  likes  to  pose  as  an  authority 
on  such  subjects." 

"And  who  is  Captain  Cameron?" 

There  was  a  suspicion  of  jealousy  in  Le  Breton's  voice. 

"At  present  he's  possessed  with  a  demon  of  tennis.  But 
when  the  devil  has  been  cast  out,  he's  my  father's  secretary." 

"And  how  can  the  devil  be  cast  out?" 

"There's  no  really  permanent  cure,  but  it  can  be  assuaged 
pro  tern,  if  he  meets  someone  who  can  beat  him.  In  Tene- 
riffe,  he  carried  all  before  him.  And  he's  coming  over  here 
to-morrow  to  beat  all  the  local  champions.  He's  one  of 
the  few  people  I  really  like.  I've  known  him  all  my 
life." 

These  remarks  of  hers  had  the  effect  of  reducing  L« 
Breton  to  silence  again. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

IN  the  library  of  the  villa,  Le  Breton  sat  alone.  The  hour 
was  late,  getting  on  to  midnight.  He  was  stretched  in  a 
deep  chair  smoking,  his  gaze  fixed  on  a  desk  close  by,  on 
which  was  a  wide,  shallow,  crystal  bowl  full  of  water  where 
half  a  dozen  purple  pansies  floated. 

As  he  sat  there  indulging  in  some  dream  of  his  own,  a 
door  opened  and  he  looked  round  sharply,  by  no  means 
pleased  at  being  roused  from  his  reverie.  The  room  was 
his  special  sanctum;  no  one  was  supposed  to  enter  without 
his  permission. 

In  the  doorway  Lucille  stood,  in  a  foamy  white  dressing- 
gown,  her  wealth  of  red  hair  in  two  thick  ropes  down  her 
back. 

On  seeing  her,  a  look  of  suppressed  annoyance  crossed 
his  face. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked  in  a  none  too  cordial  tone. 

She  crossed  to  his  side,  and  stood  looking  down  at  him 
anxiously. 

"What  has  happened  to  you  the  last  two  days?"  she 
asked. 

"Happened  to  me !     What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"You've  been  so  very  indifferent." 

"Was  I  ever  particularly  effusive?" 

She  laid  her  hand  on  his  sleeve  with  a  lingering,  caressing 
touch. 

"I  see  nothing  of  you  now  except  at  meals,"  she  said. 

With  an  impatient  gesture  he  drew  his  arm  away. 

"I'm  not  always  in  the  mood  for  women,"  he  said 
coldly. 

"Perhaps  it  would  be  nearer  the  truth  if  you  said  some 
.other  woman  has  taken  your  fancy,"  she  suggested. 

83 


84  A  SON  OP  THE  SAHARA 

There  was  no  reply. 

Le  Breton  got  to  his  feet  and  crossed  to  the  desk,  stand- 
ing there  with  his  back  to  her  as  if  he  resented  her  presence. 

It  was  most  obvious  to  Lucille  that  she  was  not  welcome. 

"What  is  this  new  fancy  of  yours  like?"  she  asked  in  a 
hurt,  jealous  tone. 

He  made  no  answer,  but  his  very  back  oozed  annoy- 
ance. 

"What's  her  price,  Raoul?"  she  asked  in  a  wild  manner. 
"Is  it  emeralds  or  pearls  or  diamonds  ?  Or  is  she  one  whose 
price  is  above  rubies  ?" 

He  faced  round  suddenly,  anger  flashing  in  his  eyes. 

"Be  quiet,  woman!"  he  said  savagely. 

She  laughed  hysterically. 

"So  she's  something  too  good  for  me  to  talk  about,  is 
she?  Does  she  know  of  all  your  gay  doings  in  Paris?" 

"Oh,  you  women!"  he  ejaculated  contemptuously.  "Can 
you  never  learn  the  virtue  of  silence?" 

In  an  angry  manner  he  went  from  the  room,  leaving 
Lucille  in  possession.  She  watched  him  Until  the  door 
closed.  Then  she  sank  down  into  the  chair  he  had  vacated 
and  stayed  there  with  bowed  head,  weeping  bitterly. 


CHAPTEE  IX 

AT  a  spot  about  ten  miles  away  from  Las  Palmas  there 
are  some  well-known  orange  groves.  Stretch  upon  stretch 
of  scented  trees,  they  made  a  lattice-work  of  smooth  boughs 
and  shiny  leaves  overhead,  with  a  glint  of  blue  sky  here 
and  there.  The  ground  was  strewn  with  white  petals,  and 
clusters  of  white  blossoms  made  fragrant  the  gilded  green- 
ness. A  glimpse  of  the  sea  could  be  had,  and  the  waves 
filled  the  air  with  a  constant,  soft,  distant  murmur. 

At  one  spot  in  the  scented  grove  preparations  had  been 
made  for  an  elaborate  picnic.  Piles  of  soft  silk  cushions 
were  set  upon  the  ground.  On  a  cloth  of  finest  linen  was 
spread  an  array  of  frail  china  and  heavy  silver,  with  here 
and  there  some  golden  dish  holding  dainties. 

Two  impassive  men  with  lean,  brown  faces,  clad  in  flow- 
ing white  robes,  stood  near.  Beyond  all  view  of  the  feast 
came  a  faint  rattle  of  pots  and  pans,  and  a  little  wavering 
column  of  smoke  rose  from  a  fire  where  breakfast  was  being 
prepared. 

When  Pansy  had  come  down  the  hotel  steps  for  her  usual 
early  morning  ride  she  had  not  been  very  surprised  to  find 
Le  Breton  there  waiting  for  her. 

She  had  had  a  wide  experience  of  men  and  their  ways, 
and  she  knew  what  she  called  "the  symptoms."  Generally 
"the  symptoms"  annoyed  her;  she  felt  they  had  more 
to  do  with  her  money  than  herself.  But  Le  Breton's  case 
was  different.  She  knew  who  he  was,  but  he  had  no  idea 
of  her  identity. 

"I'm  going  to  take  you  out  for  breakfast  this  time,"  he 
said  on  seeing  her. 

"Where  are  we  going?"  she  asked. 

"To  the  orange  groves  beyond  Telde/' 

85 


86  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA 

They  had  ridden  through  the  white  city,  and  then  on, 
skirting  the  coast,  past  banana  plantations,  cindery-looking 
cliffs  and  a  lava  bed  where  the  poisonous  euphorbia  grew, 
ten  to  twelve  feet  High,  stiff  and  straight,  like  gigantic 
candelabras. 

"I  was  thinking  about  you  last  night/'  Pansy  remarked 
once,  between  their  canters.  "What  you  said  about  the 
miry  depths.  And  I  remember  having  read  somewhere 
that  water  can  always  reach  to  the  level  it  rises  from.  When 
people  get  into  the  depths  they  should  remember  that; 
it'll  help  them  to  scramble  out." 

The  miry  depths  of  dissipation  into  which  he  occasion- 
ally plunged  had  never  troubled  Le  Breton  in  the  least. 
He  was  not  actively  aware  that  they  did  now,  although  he 
hoped  that  Pansy  would  not  get  to  hear  of  them.  But  it 
was  all  part  of  the  girl's  nature  to  have  ready  the  helpful 
hand. 

"So,  Pansy/'  he  said,  "having  saved  my  body,  you're 
now  after  my  soul." 

"Oh  no,  I'm  not  a  missionary!  But  if  you  like  people, 
there's  no  harm  in  giving  them  a  word  in  season." 

He  brought  his  horse  closer,  and  bent  towards  the  girl. 

"So  you  like  me?"  he  said  in  a  caressing  tone. 

"I  shouldn't  be  here  if  I  didn't,"  she  answered  candidly. 

"And  what  if  I  say  I  like  you?"  he  asked,  laughing 
softly. 

"I  should  say  it's  very  nice  of  you,  considering  you  know 
nothing  at  all  about  me." 

"I  can  see  you  are  beautiful.  I  know  your  heart  is  kind. 
Circumstances  have  shown  me  you  are  not  mercenary. 
What  more  could  I  wish  to  know  about  you?  Isn't  the 
combination  enough  to  attract  any  man?" 

"Considering  you  are  French,  you've  missed  the  vital 
point,"  she  said  demurely.  "You  haven't  said  anything 
about  a  dot." 

"No  man  in  his  senses  would  want  a  dot  with  you/' 

"He  wouldn't  get  much  money  out  of  my  father,  any- 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA  87 

how/'  she  said.  "He's  a  poor  man  who  has  to  work  hard 
for  his  living;  and  I  love  him  better  than  anyone  in  the 
whole  wide  world." 

"I'd  like  to  meet  him,"  Le  Breton  remarked. 

"So  you  will,  if  you  behave  yourself.  He's  coming  out 
here  very  soon." 

"What  constitutes  behaving  myself?"  he  asked.  "People 
have  never  complained  of  my  behaviour  so  far." 

Pansy  knew  he  was  arrogant  and  overbearing.  By  his 
own  telling,  she  guessed  he  was  inclined  to  be  wild.  She 
suspected  him  of  having  little  or  no  respect  for  women, 
although  he  had  been  unfailingly  courteous  to  her. 

"I  might  complain  if  I  had  much  to  do  with  you,  though," 
she  said. 

"It  would  be  refreshing,  to  say  the  least,"  he  re- 
marked, with  a  slight  smile  hovering  on  his  lips.  "And 
what  would  you  complain  of  especially?" 

"You  need  a  lot  of  reforming  in  quite  a  few  ways." 

"Tell  me,  and  I'll  endeavour  to  mould  myself  according 
to  your  ideals,"  he  said  with  laughter. 

"You  know  you're  very  well  pleased  with  yourself  as 
you  are." 

"But  I'm  even  better  pleased  with  you,  Pansy,"  he 
answered,  watching  her  with  glowing  gaze. 

This  Pansy  knew  quite  well.  To  get  off  the  topic,  she 
touched  her  horse  lightly  and  broke  into  a  canter.  For  it 
seemed  to  her  "the  symptoms"  were  coming  to  a  head 
even  more  rapidly  than  she  had  expected. 

When  the  edge  of  the  orange  grove  was  reached,  a  couple 
of  white-robed  men  came  forward  to  take  their  horses — dark 
men,  with  hawk-like  faces,  lean  and  sun-scorched,  who 
bowed  low  before  her  escort  with  the  utmost  servility. 

"They  look  like  Arabs,"  Pansy  said. 

"They  are  Arabs;  some  of  my  servants  from  Africa. 
I  generally  have  half  a  dozen  with  me." 

It  seemed  to  Pansy  the  whole  half-dozen  were  in  the 
grove,  ready  to  wait  on  her. 


88  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA 

No  sooner  was  she  settled  among  the  cushions  than  one 
of  the  servants  placed  a  little  box  before  her,  about  six 
inches  long  and  four  wide:  a  costly  trifle  made  of  beaten 
gold,  inlaid  with  flat  emeralds  and  rubies. 

"Is  it  Pandora's  box?"  she  asked,  picking  it  up  and 
examining  it  with  curiosity. 

"It  and  the  contents  are  for  you,"  Le  Breton  replied. 

She  turned  the  tiny  golden  key.  Inside,  three  purple 
pansies  reposed  on  a  nest  of  green  moss,  smiling  up  at  her 
with  velvety  eyes. 

"I'll  have  the  contents,"  she  said.  "The  box  you  can 
keep  for  another  time." 

With  slim  white  fingers  she  picked  out  the  pansies  and 
tucked  them  into  her  coat. 

"Still  only  a  few  flowers,  Pansy?"  he  said,  annoyed, 
yet  pleased  that  her  friendship  was  disinterested.  "Sug- 
gest something  else  that  you  would  accept." 

"Breakfast,"  she  said  promptly.     "I'm  dying  of  hunger." 

A  sumptuous  feast  was  spread  for  her  benefit,  served  in 
gold  and  jewel-encrusted  dishes;  an  array  of  the  most 
expensive  luxuries.  If  Le  Breton's  idea  had  been  to  impress 
her  with  his  wealth  and  magnificence,  he  failed.  It  seemed 
to  pass  her  by  unnoticed;  for  Pansy  was  much  more  in- 
terested in  his  Arab  servants,  the  grove,  the  distant  view  of 
the  sea,  than  any  of  the  regal  extravagance  immediately 
before  her. 

When  the  meal  was  over  she  sat,  wistful  and  dreamy- 
looking,  listening  to  the  sigh  ef  the  sea. 

For  some  moments  Le  Brevon  watched  her.  Just  then 
her  mood  appeared  very  out  of  keeping  with  her  boyish 
attire. 

"I'd  like  to  see  you  dressed  in  something  really  feminine," 
he  remarked  presently. 

"What's  your  idea  of  something  'really  feminine?'"  she 
inquired. 

"Just  one  garment,  a  robe  that  would  come  from  your 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAEA  89 

shoulders  to  your  knees,  loose  and  clinging,  soft  and  white, 
with  a  strap  of  pearls  to  hold  it  on." 

"It  sounds  draughty/'  she  commented;  "and  it  might 
show  my  horrid  scars." 

"It  would  suit  you  admirably." 

"And,  I  suppose,  it  would  suit  you  admirably,  too,  to  be 
lying  about  on  cushions  with  me  so  attired  waiting  on  you," 
she  said  quickly.  "Bringing  you  sherbet  and  hubble- 
bubbles,  or  whatever  you  call  those  big  pipe  things  that 
men  smoke  in  Eastern  pictures  and  on  cigar-box  lids.  And 
I  shouldn't  dare  call  my  soul  my  own.  I  should  tremble 
at  your  look.  That  one  garment  would  place  me  at  a 
terrible  disadvantage." 

"I  might  not  be  a  severe  task-master.  I  might  only  ask 
you  to  do  one  thing." 

"And  what  would  that  be?" 

"In  English,  I  could  say  it  in  two  words;  spell  it  in 
six  letters." 

Pansy  darted  a  quick  look  at  him,  and  a  little  mocking 
smile  came  and  hovered  on  her  mouth. 

She  was  too  accustomed  to  men  and  their  ways  not  to  guess 
what  the  two  words  that  could  be  spelt  in  six  letters  were. 

She  sat  quiet  for  a  moment  or  two,  an  impish  look  on 
her  face.  Then  she  rattled  off  a  riddle  in  English : — 

"My  first  is  in  apple,  but  not  in  pie, 
My  second  is  in  do,  but  not  in  die, 
My  third  is  in  veal,  but  not  in  ham, 
My  fourth  is  in  sheep,  but  not  in  lamb, 
My  fifth  is  in  morning,  but  not  in  night, 
My  sixth  is  in  darkness,  but  not  in  light, 
My  whole  is  just  a  word  or  two, 
Which  is  known  to  me  as  well  as  to  you." 

Le  Breton  knew  more   English  than  he  pretended,  but 
riddles  did  not  often  come  his  way. 
"Say  it  again  slowly,"  he  requested. 
Pansy  repeated  her  composition. 


90  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAEA 

He  stored  it  up  in  his  mind,  deciding  to  go  into  the 
matter  later  on  when  there  was  no  lovely  little  face,  dimpled 
with  mischief,  looking  at  him  teasingly  from  beneath  a  halo 
of  golden  curls. 

Soon  after  this  Pansy  glanced  at  her  wrist  watch. 

"I  mustn't  stay  any  longer,"  she  said,  getting  to  her  feet. 

"It's  not  nine  o'clock  yet,"  he  remarked.  "I  didn't 
hurry  away  from  you  so  quickly  yesterday." 

This  Pansy  knew  quite  well. 

He  had  sat  on,  and  on,  with  her  in  the  summer-house 
with  the  red  roses,  and  she  had  been  pleased  to  let  him 
stay.  In  fact,  it  had  been  afternoon  before  they  had  come 
down  to  earth  again. 

"Captain  Cameron  is  coming  this  morning,"  she  said. 
"And  I  promised  to  be  on  the  quay  to  meet  him." 

So  saying,  she  turned  towards  the  spot  where  the 
horses  were  waiting,  leaving  him  to  follow  or  not  as 
he  liked. 

Pansy  wanted  to  linger  in  the  grove  with  Baoul  Le 
Breton  as  she  had  been  pleased  to  stay  with  him  among 
the  red  roses  on  the  previous  day;  but  she  decided  the 
mood  was  not  one  to  be  encouraged,  especially  considering 
his  desire  for  the  two  words,  containing  in  all  six  letters, 
and  her  own  desire  for  untrammelled  liberty. 


CHAPTER  X 

UNDEE  the  trees  that  shadowed  one  corner  of  the  tennis- 
courts  of  the  hotel  a  couple  stood.  One  was  a  young  man 
of  about  twenty-four,  in  white  flannel  trousers  and  shirt- 
sleeves, who  held  a  tennis  racket  in  one  hand  and  a  couple 
of  balls  in  the  other.  He  was  of  medium  height,  fresh  and 
fair  and  boyish  looking. 

At  his  side  Pansy  stood,  in  short  skirt  and  blouse  and 
Panama  hat. 

"Well,  old  pal,  is  there  anything  doing  yet?"  he  was 
asking  cheerfully. 

"There's  nothing  doing,  Bob,  much  as  I  try." 

"Anyhow,  it's  a  standing  order,"  he  said. 

"I  know;  and  I'm  doing  my  best,"  she  said.  "I  try  to 
go  to  bed  every  night  with  your  name  on  my  lips,  but 
more  frequently  I  go  with  a  yawn.  All  for  the  sake  of  the 
'dear  dead  days  beyond  recall.' " 

"Which  ones  especially?"  Cameron  inquired. 

"When  I  was  five  and  you  were  nine,  and  we  were  all 
the  world  to  one  another." 

"In  the  days  of  my,  'dim  and  distant'  youth  I  learnt  a 
rotten  poem,  from  dire  necessity,  not  choice,  you  bet. 
About  some  bore  of  a  Scotch  king  and  a  spider,  and  the 
chorus  or  the  moral,  I've  forgotten  which,  ran,  'If  at  first 
you  don't  succeed,  try  again.'  Perseverance,  Pansy.  It's 
a  wonderful  thing.  You'll  find  yourself  there  in  the 
end." 

Pansy  smiled  a  trifle  wistfully  at  the  boy  she  had  known 
all  her  life,  who  always  gave  her  nonsense  for  nonsense, 
and,  incidentally,  his  heart. 

"Bob,  I  wish  I  could  love  you,"  she  said,  suddenly 
grave. 

91 


92  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAEA 

Smiling  at  her,  he  started  juggling  with  the  two  balls. 

"So  the  spirit  is  willing,  etc.  ?"  he  responded.  "Well, 
I  shall  go  on  hoping  for  a  triumph  of  mind  over  matter." 

For  some  reason  Pansy  felt  intensely  sorry  for  her  old 
playmate. 

She  caught  herself  making  comparisons,  and  something 
within  her  suddenly  whispered  that  they  would  never  be 
more  than  friends,  something  she  did  not  quite  realise — 
some  change  that  had  taken  place  within  herself  since  they 
had  parted  in  Teneriffe  only  a  week  before. 


CHAPTER  XI 

EAOUL  LE  BRETON  took  Pansy's  riddle  home  to  solve.  He 
went  about  it  in  his  own  private  sanctum.  Seating  himself 
at  the  desk,  he  wrote  out  the  verse,  with  a  French-English 
dictionary,  making  sure  his  spelling  was  correct.  Then  he 
set  out  to  find  the  solution. 

He  was  not  long  in  doing  so. 

Afterwards  he  sat  on,  gazing  at  the  pansies  in  the  crystal 
bowl  on  the  desk,  a  tender  look  on  his  arrogant  face. 

A  daring  little  creature,  that  beautiful  English  girl,  frank 
as  the  boy  she  looked  in  her  riding  suit,  with  attractions 
beyond  those  of  her  sex  and  beauty;  a  courage  that  roused 
his  admiration;  a  kindness  that  moved  his  heart;  a  dis- 
interestedness sweet  as  it  was  novel;  an  ability  to  touch 
parts  of  his  being  no  woman  had  touched  before,  and  with 
a  subtle  something  about  her  that  brought  him  an  ease  of 
spirit  he  rarely  experienced.  "Heart's  Ease,"  truly! 

As  he  brooded  on  Pansy  he  forgot  his  vengeance — that 
he  was  only  waiting  in  Grand  Canary  until  quite  certain 
Sir  George  Barclay  was  on  his  way  to  Gambia. 

He  thought  only  of  the  velvety-eyed  girl  who  had  an- 
swered him  so  deftly  and  laughingly. 

The  riddle  had  told  him  the  one  thing  he  would  ask  her 
to  do;  his  two  words,  spelt  with  six  letters: 

"Love  me." 

The  fact  sent  Le  Breton  to  the  hotel  that  evening  for 
an  interview  with  the  verse-maker. 

The  place  was  a  blaze  of  light  and  a  crash  of  music.  In 
the  big  patio  the  usual  bi-weekly  dance  was  taking  place, 
and  a  crowd  of  people  disported  themselves  to  the  strains 
of  a  ragtime  band. 

Le  Breton  made  a  striking  figure  in  evening  clothes,  and 

93 


94  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAEA 

more  than  one  woman  glanced  at  him  with  invitation.  He 
took  no  notice  of  them.  All  he  wanted  was  a  slim 
girl  with  a  mop  of  short,  dancing,  golden  curls.  The 
room  was  BO  crowded  that  he  could  get  no  glimpse  of  his 
quarry,  although  he  altered  his  point  of  view  several  times. 

At  the  end  of  half  an  hour  he  decided  to  take  a  turn 
round  the  grounds. 

The  garden  was  soft  with  moonlight,  filled  with  a  misty 
brightness,  and  the  palms  hung  limp  and  sighing.  From 
beyond  the  wall  came  the  murmur  of  the  sea.  Syringa 
and  roses  filled  the  night  with  perfume.  At  one  spot  a 
fountain  sang  sweetly  to  itself. 

There  Le  Breton  lingered  with  the  moonlight  and  the 
ebony  shadows,  the  tropical  trees  sighing  languorously 
around  him. 

As  he  waited  there,  deep  in  some  reverie  of  his  own,  the 
sound  of  footsteps  reached  him.  Then,  from  an  adjacent 
path,  voices  talking  in  English — a  man's  thick,  low,  and 
protesting,  then  a  girl's  clear  and  indignant. 

"When  did  I  encourage  you?"  she  asked,  her  voice  raised 
in  righteous  anger.  "Once  you  brought  me  a  cup  of  tea  I 
didn't  want.  Twice  you  mixed  my  books  and  papers  with 
somebody  else's.  I  was  three  times  your  partner  at  Bridge, 
and  that  wasn't  any  fault  of  mine.  I  defy  you  to  mention 
more  encouragement  than  that.  Go  to  your  woman  with 
red  hair,  and  don't  talk  nonsense  to  me." 

The  man's  voice  came  again.  Then  there  was  a  little 
cry  of  anger  and  the  sound  of  a  struggle. 

The  girl's  voice  brought  Le  Breton  out  of  his  reverie. 
He  knew  it,  although  he  could  not  follow  a  quarter  of  what 
was  said.  But  the  little  cry  and  the  subsequent  scuffle  sent 
him  quickly  in  that  direction. 

He  saw  Pansy  struggling  vainly  to  get  away  from  a 
short,  thick-set  man  with  a  red  face  and  fishy  eyes,  who 
held  her  by  one  bare  arm. 

Le  Breton  was  not  long  in  covering  the  distance  that  lay 
between  himself  and  the  couple.  His  coming  made  Pansy's 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA  95 

persecutor  let  go  quickly,  and  make  off.  The  girl  had 
been  struggling  with  all  her  might  to  escape  from  his  coarse, 
hot  grip.  And  she  was  too  intent  on  getting  out  of  an 
undesirable  situation  even  to  notice  that  someone's  approach 
was  responsible  for  her  sudden  freedom. 

The  force  of  her  struggles  sent  her  staggering  backwards, 
right  on  Le  Breton.  His  arm  went  round  her.  He  held  her 
pressed  against  him,  his  hand  on  her  heart. 

It  seemed  to  Pansx  she  had  gotten  out  of  the  frying-pan 
into  the  fire. 

Quivering  with  indignation  she  looked  up.  Then  she 
laughed  in  a  tremulous  manner. 

"Oh,  it's  you,  is  it?  I  wondered  who  else  was  on  my 
trail." 

"You  ought  not  to  be  out  at  night  alone,"  he  said  severely. 
"A  beautiful  girl  is  a  temptation  to  any  man." 

"I'm  no  temptation.  It's  my  money.  He  likes  women 
with  red  hair." 

Le  Breton  scanned  Pansy  more  closely. 

He  had  noticed  she  was  dressed  in  white,  but  with  her 
unexpectedly  in  his  arms  he  had  not  troubled  to  look 
further. 

She  was  wearing  a  dress  of  chiffon,  light  as  air,  vague  as 
moonlight,  that  clung  about  her  like  a  mist,  caught  up 
here  and  there  with  tiny  diamond  buckles  which  made  the 
garment  look  as  if  studded  with  dewdrops.  And  on  a  thin 
platinum  chain  about  her  neck  was  hung  one  great  sparkling 
drop  of  light. 

Le  Breton  knew  real  gems  when  he  saw  them,  and  that 
one  diamond  alone  was  worth  a  fortune. 

He  bent  his  proud  head,  until  his  lips  just  touched  the 
fluff  of  golden  curls. 

"Who  are  you  really,  Pansy?"  he  asked  softly. 

"You  despise  and  dislike  me  already,  so  why  should  I  get 
further  into  your  black  books  ?" 

"I,  despise  and  dislike  you?" 

"You  said  you  disliked  all  the  English." 


96  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA 

"I'm  quite  willing  to  make  an  exception  in  your  favour/' 

''When  you  learn  the  truth  you'll  'detest'  me." 

"Never !"  he  said  emphatically. 

"Well  then,  I'm  'that  woman  of  the  name  of  Langham.' n 

"You!"  he  exclaimed. 

Then  he  laughed. 

"Pansy,  you're  a  little  creature  of  rare  surprises." 

The  surprise  held  him  silent  for  some  moments.  Or  else 
it  was  sufficient  to  have  the  girl  there,  unresisting  against 
his  heart. 

Up  till  now  Pansy  had  avoided  all  male  arms  as  far  as  it 
was  possible  for  a  girl  who  was  beautiful,  wealthy  and  light- 
hearted.  Whenever  caught  she  had  wriggled  out  indig- 
nantly. 

From  the  arm  that  held  her  now  she  made  no  attempt 
to  escape.  A  fearsome  fascination  lay  within  its  embrace. 
It  seemed  that  he  would  have  but  to  close  the  hand  that 
rested  on  her  bosom,  and  her  heart  would  be  in  his  grip, 
snatched  out  of  her  keeping  before  she  knew  it. 

Suddenly  it  dawned  on  Pansy  that  if  she  stayed  there 
much  longer  she  would  want  to  stay  for  ever. 

One  by  one  she  lifted  the  sinewy,  brown  fingers  from  her 
dress,  holding  them  in  one  hand  as  she  went  about  her 
task  with  the  other. 

With  a  slight  smile  Le  Breton  watched  her.  But  when 
the  last  of  his  fingers  was  removed,  she  was  still  a  prisoner, 
held  secure  within  his  arm. 

Then  Pansy  descended  to  strategy. 

"Mr.  Le  Breton,  will  you  lend  me  your  handkerchief?" 
she  asked  in  a  mild  tone. 

"Why  do  you  want  it  ?"  the  voice  of  the  master  demanded. 

"To  dip  it  in  the  fountain  there  and  wash  my  arm. 
It  feels  all  horrid  and  nasty  and  clammy  where  that  odious 
man  touched  it,"  she  said  meekly. 

The  sentiment  was  one  Le  Breton  approved  of  and  sym- 
pathised with. 

Letting  her  go,  he  drew  out  his  handkerchief. 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAEA  97 

Taking  it,  Pansy  turned  towards  the  fountain.  He  fol- 
lowed and  stood  beside  her,  obviously  waiting  until  her  task 
was  finished  before  carrying  the  situation  further. 

As  Pansy  scrubbed  away  at  her  arm,  she  kept  a  rather 
nervous  eye  on  him. 

When  the  task  was  completed,  she  screwed  the  handker- 
chief up  into  a  loose,  wet  ball.  But  she  did  not  throw  it  on 
the  ground  as  Le  Breton  expected  and  was  waiting  for  her  to 
do,  before  taking  her  into  his  arms  again. 

Instead,  she  threw  it  into  his  face. 

It  took  him  by  surprise;  an  indignity  that  had  not  come 
his  way  hitherto.  People  were  not  in  the  habit  of  throwing 
wet  handkerchiefs  with  stinging  force  into  the  face  of  the 
Sultan  Casim  Ammeh. 

The  force  and  wetness  temporarily  blinded  him.  He  was 
perhaps  ten  seconds  in  recovering  his  sight  and  his  dignity. 

Then  he  looked  for  the  girl. 

She  was  running  as  fast  as  she  could  away  from  him, 
down  a  misty,  moonlit  path,  in  her  chiffon  and  diamonds 
looking  a  shimmer  of  moonlight  and  sparkling  dew  herself. 

Pansy's  only  desire  just  then  was  to  get  out  of  the  white, 
romantic  moonlit  world  with  its  scents  and  sighs  and  seduc- 
tive murmurs,  back  to  one  of  electric  light  and  ragtime, 
where  there  was  no  Raoul  Le  Breton  looking  at  her  gravely, 
with  glowing  eyes. 

He  had  suddenly  become  a  startling  menace  to  her 
cherished  liberty,  this  big,  dark  man  with  his  masterful  air 
and  high-handed  ways. 

Whatever  he  said  she  would  have  to  listen  to.  Perhaps 
even — agree  with! 


CHAPTEE  XII 

LE  Breton  did  not  run  after  the  girl.  He  watched  her  go, 
with  a  feeling  that  he  could  afford  to  bide  his  time.  But 
at  six  o'clock  the  next  morning  he  was  round  at  the  hotel 
waiting  for  Pansy  to  come  for  her  usual  ride. 

However,  there  was  no  sign  of  her  either  that  morning  or 
the  following.  In  fact,  it  was  not  until  the  afternoon  of 
the  second  day  that  he  saw  anything  of  her. 

A  tennis  tournament  was  taking  place  at  the  hotel. 
Le  Breton  went  feeling  sure  Pansy  would  be  there,  and 
incidentally,  to  find  out  what  Captain  Cameron,  the  local 
tennis  champion,  was  like. 

He  saw  a  fresh-faced  youngster,  decidedly  better-looking 
than  the  rest  of  the  men  there,  but  too  much  like  the  girl 
herself  ever  to  be  able  to  hold  her. 

Then  he  looked  for  Pansy. 

She  was  seated  with  a  group  of  acquaintances,  awaiting 
her  turn  on  the  courts. 

On  seeing  Le  Breton,  she  vouchsafed  him  a  smile  and  a 
nod,  but  no  further  attention. 

After  a  three  days'  tournament,  Cameron  emerged  victor, 
but  Le  Breton  had  managed  to  get  no  word  with  Pansy. 
Whenever  he  came  within  speaking  distance  she  edged  away, 
taking  cover  behind  someone.  To  catch  her  was  like  setting 
a  trap  to  catch  a  moonbeam. 

At  the  end  of  the  tournament  word  went  round  that  a 
rank  outsider  had  challenged  the  victor. 

"Who  is  it,  Bob?"  Pansy  asked  when  the  news  reached 
her. 

Cameron  pointed  with  his  racket  across  the  court,  to 
where  Le  Breton  stood,  in  panama  hat  and  grey  flannels. 

98 


A  SOX  OF  THE  SAHAEA  99 

"That  big  chap  over  there/'  he  said.  "He's  got  a  nerve, 
hasn't  he?" 

"And  did  you  accept?"  Pansy  asked. 

"Of  course  I.  did.     I  couldn't  let  that  sort  of  cheek  pass." 

Other  people  had  heard  what  was  happening.  An  inter- 
ested crowd  collected  around  the  court.  For  word  had  gone 
round  that  the  man  who  had  challenged  the  English  cham- 
pion was  Raoul  Le  Breton,  the  French  millionaire. 

Captain  Cameron  had  not  been  long  on  the  court  before 
he  discovered  he  had  met  his  equal,  if  not  his  superior. 

With  a  long,  lithe  movement  Le  Breton  was  all  over  the 
ground,  seemingly  unhurried,  but  always  there  at  the  right 
moment,  making  his  opponent's  play  look  like  a  heated 
scramble.  But  Le  Breton's  serving  was  his  great  point;  a 
lightning  stroke  that  gave  no  hint  as  to  where  the  ball  would 
land;  sometimes  it  was  just  over  the  net;  sometimes  just 
within  the  furthermost  limits  of  the  court. 

Cameron  was  beaten;  a  beating  he  took  with  a  boyish 
smile,  as  he  congratulated  the  winner. 

Others  crowded  round  Le  Breton,  anxious  to  add  their 
quota  to  the  praise. 

When  the  crowd  dispersed  Pansy  approached  him,  as  he 
stood  cool  and  dignified,  despite  the  strenuous  game. 

"You  never  told  me  you  could  play  tennis,"  she  remarked. 

"There  are  lots  of  things  about  myself  I  haven't  told 
you,"  he  replied  drily. 

"What  are  they?"  she  asked.  "You  mustn't  rouse  my 
curiosity  and  then  not  satisfy  it." 

"You  needn't  worry.  I  shall  tell  you  some  day,"  he 
answered. 

As  Pansy  talked  to  him  she  played  battledore  and  shuttle- 
cock with  her  racket  and  ball. 

"When  will  that  day  be?"  she  asked.  "The  sooner,  the 
better.  It's  bad  for  my  health  to  be  kept  in  a  state  of 
inquisitive  suspense." 

"The  sooner  the  better  will  suit  me  admirably,"  he  said. 
."For  I  shall  tell  you  when  we  are — married." 


100  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAEA 

Pansy  just  stared  at  him. 

"Then  I  shall  never  hear,"  she  said,  when  she  had  recov- 
ered her  breath.  "For  I  shall  never  get  married.  Never. 
At  least,  not  before  I'm  forty/' 

There  was  a  brief  pause. 

"Why  are  you  avoiding  me?"  he  asked  presently. 

"What  a  stupid  thing  to  say!  Aren't  I  here  talking  to 
you  now?" 

"With  a  whole  crowd  of  people  round,  yes." 

She  tapped  the  tennis  ball  from  her  racket  to  his  chest, 
hitting  it  back  and  back  again,  as  if  he  were  a  wall.  For 
some  minutes  Le  Breton  watched  her  in  an  amused  manner, 
as  if  she  were  something  so  favoured  that  she  could  do 
what  she  liked  with  him.  Then  he  caught  the  ball  and 
stopped  the  game. 

"I've  a  challenge  for  you,  too,  Pansy,"  he  said. 
"Will  you  meet  me  to-night,  after  dinner,  near  the  foun- 
tain?" 

"It  wouldn't  require  a  great  amount  of  courage  to  do 
that." 

"Will  you  come  then  ?" 

"You  said  I  wasn't  to  wander  about  in  the  grounds  alone 
at  night." 

"I'll  come  for  you  then,  since  you're  so  anxious  to  comply 
with  my  desires." 

"  'Comply  with  my  desires,' "  she  repeated  mockingly. 
"That's  a  nice  useful  phrase  to  hurl  about." 

There  was  an  air  of  unusual  and  unaccustomed  patience 
about  Le  Breton,  as  he  argued  with  his  moonbeam.  Curious 
glances  were  cast  in  the  direction  of  the  couple.  Miss 
Langham  had  never  been  seen  to  favour  a  man  as  she  was 
favouring  the  French  millionaire. 

"Birds  of  a  feather,"  someone  remarked. 

With  some  surprise  young  Cameron  watched  her. 
Another  watched  her  too.  The  red-faced,  fishy-eyed  man 
from  whose  undesired  attentions  Le  Breton  had  rescued 
her  a  few  nights  before. 


101 

"If  you  don't  come  I  shall  know  what  to  think/'  Le 
Breton  said.  "That  you  dare  not." 

A  suspicion  of  a  blush  deepened  the  pink  in  the  girl's 
cheeks. 

"And  if  I  do  come,  what  shall  you  think  then?"  she 
asked  him  with  a  nonchalant  air. 

"It'll  be  quite  time  enough  to  tell  you  when  that  comes 
to  pass,"  he  answered. 

Pansy  had  no  intention  that  it  should  come  to  pass. 
Eaoul  Le  Breton  might  keep  the  tryst  if  he  liked,  but  she 
would  not  be  there. 

Not  if  she  could  help  it — a  little  voice  within  her  added. 


CHAPTEE  XIII 

WHEN"  night  came  Pansy  tried  not  to  think  of  Le  Breton, 
but  the  idea  of  him  out  there  in  the  moonlight  haunted 
her.  She  wondered  how  long  he  would  wait;  patience  did 
not  look  to  be  one  of  his  virtues. 

There  was  a  dance  at  the  hotel  again  that  evening.  As 
she  whirled  round  and  round,  slim  and  light,  looking  in 
her  chiffon  and  diamonds  a  creature  of  mist  and  dew,  her 
thoughts  were  with  none  of  her  partners.  They  were  out 
in  the  garden  with  the  big,  masterful  man  who  was  so  dif- 
ferent from  all  others  of  his  sex  who  had  come  into  her  life. 

By  midnight  the  gaieties  were  over.  Pansy  went  up  to 
her  room.  But  she  did  not  go  to  bed.  Dismissing  her  maid, 
she  went  out  on  the  balcony,  and  stood  there  watching  the 
sea,  as  she  had  watched  it  barely  a  week  before,  when  Le 
Breton  had  come  into  her  life. 

The  world  was  as  white  and  peaceful  as  then;  the  sea 
a  stretch  of  murmurous  silver;  the  garden  vaguely  "sighing ; 
the  little,  moist,  cool  puffs  of  wind  ladened  with  the  scent 
of  roses  and  the  fragrance  of  foreign  flowers. 

As  she  watched  the  scene,  an  overpowering  desire  to  go 
and  see  if  Le  Breton  were  still  there  seized  her;  a  desire 
that  rapidly  became  an  obsession. 

Of  course  he  would  not  stay  from  nine  o'clock  until  after 
midnight ! 

For  all  that  Pansy  felt  she  must  go.  That  she  must 
linger  for  a  moment  in  the  spot  where  he  had  lingered. 

She  turned  quickly  into  her  room;  then  out  into  the 
corridor;  down  the  stairs  and  on  towards  a  door  that  led 
out  into  the  grounds. 

Once  there,  the  moonlight  drew  her  on  towards  the 
fountain. 

102 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAKA  103 

On  reaching  the  trysting-place  there  was  no  sign  of  any- 
body there. 

With  a  feeling  of  intense  disappointment  Pansy  turned 
towards  the  sea-wall,  and  stood  there  with  the  soft  light 
shimmering  on  her,  her  face  wistful  as  she  watched  the 
molten  sea. 

Now  that  she  had  come,  to  find  Le  Breton  gone  hurt  her. 

If  he  really  liked  her,  he  would  have  stayed  all  night  on 
the  chance  of  her  coming.  She  would,  if  she  were  really 
fond  of  anybody. 

A  tear  came  and  sparkled  on  her  long,  dark  lashes. 

He  could  not  love  her  very  much,  or  he  would  not  have 
left. 

A  slight  movement  in  the  shadows  behind  made  her  face 
round  quickly,  her  heart  giving  a  sudden  bound. 

"Well,  Pansy,"  the  voice  she  knew  so  well  said  in  a  caress- 
ing tone. 

She  laughed  tremulously. 

"I  thought  you'd  gone  hours  ago,"  she  said. 

Le  Breton  came  to  her  side,  a  mocking  look  in  his  dark, 
smouldering  eyes  as  he  watched  her. 

"There  are  two  things  a  man  will  always  wait  for  if  they 
cut  deeply  enough,"  he  replied.  "Love  and  revenge." 

"How  dramatic  you  sound!  Which  has  kept  you  on  the 
prowl  to-night?"  she  asked  lightly,  edging  away  from  him. 

But  his  arm  went  round  her  quickly,  and  she  was  drawn 
back  to  his  side. 

"No,  my  little  girl,  not  this  time,"  he  whispered. 

She  tried  to  free  herself  from  his  embrace. 

"I  didn't  mean  to  come.  I  really  didn't,"  she  said 
breathlessly. 

He  laughed  in  a  tender,  masterful  fashion. 

"Possibly  not,  but  since  you're  here  I  intend  that  you 
shall  stay." 

"No,  no,"  she  said  quickly.      "Let  me  go." 

Pansy   struggled   after   a   liberty   that  she   saw   rapidly 


104=  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAEA 

vanishing.  But  he  just  held  her,  firmly,  strongly,  watching 
her  with  an  amused  air. 

"I  shall  spoil  my  dress  if  I  have  to  wrestle  with  you  like 
this,"  she  panted  presently. 

"Don't  wrestle  then,"  he  said  coolly.  "Stay  where  you 
are,  little  moonbeam,  and  no  harm  will  come  to  the  dress." 

It  was  fatal  to  be  in  his  arms  again.  She  stopped  strug- 
gling and  stayed  passive  within  his  embrace. 

With  easy  strength  Le  Breton  lifted  her.  Going  to  a 
bench,  he  sat  down  with  her  on  his  knee. 

"Why  did  you  run  away  from  me  the  other  night?"  he 
asked. 

A  slim  finger  played  rather  nervously  with  a  black  pearl 
stud  in  the  front  of  his  dress  shirt. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said,  her  eyes  avoiding  his. 

Then  she  laughed. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  do,"  she  went  on.  "Because  I  couldn't  do 
as  I  liked  if  I  stayed  with  you." 

"I  could  never  be  a  hard  taskmaster.  Not  with  you," 
he  said  softly. 

"Are  you  with  some  people?"  she  asked. 

Le  Breton  thought  of  the  desert  kingdom  he  ruled  alone, 
and  he  laughed.  Then  he  kissed  the  little  mouth  so  tempt- 
ingly close  to  his  own ;  a  long,  passionate  caress  that  seemed 
to  take  all  strength  from  the  girl.  Her  head  fell  on  his 
shoulder,  and  she  lay  limp  within  his  arms,  watching  him 
in  a  vague,  dreamy  manner. 

For  a  time  there  was  silence.  Le  Breton  sat  with  her 
pressed  against  his  heart,  as  if  to  have  her  there  were  all- 
sufficient. 

"I  feel  like  Jonah,"  Pansy  said  presently.  "All  swal- 
lowed up.  There  seems  to  be  nothing  in  the  whole  wide 
world  now  but  you." 

With  a  loving  hand  he  caressed  her  silky  curls. 

"And  I,  Heart's  Ease,  want  nothing  but  you,  henceforth 
and  forever." 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAEA  105 

Pansy  snuggled  closer  to  him. 

"To  think  I'm  sitting  here  on  your  knee,"  she  whispered. 
"A  week  ago  I  didn't  know  there  was  any  you.  And  now 
I  only  know  your  name  and " 

She  broke  off,  a  blush  deepening  the  roses  on  her  cheeks. 

"And  what,  my  darling  ?"  he  asked  tenderly. 

"Put  your  ear  quite  close.  It's  not  a  matter  that  can  be 
shouted  from  the  house-tops." 

He  bent  his  proud  head  down,  close  to  the  girl's  lips. 

"And  that  I  love  you,"  she  whispered. 

Then  she  kissed  the  ear  the  confession  had  been  made 
into. 

"And  that  you  will  marry  me,"  he  added. 

"Perhaps,  some  day,  twenty  years  hence,"  she  said  airily. 
"When  I've  had  my  fling." 

Le  Breton  had  never  had  to  wait  for  any  woman  he 
fancied,  and  he  had  no  intention  of  waiting  now. 

"No,  Pansy,  you  must  marry  me  now,  at  once,"  he  said 
firmly. 

"What  a  hustler  you  are,  Eaoul.  You  must  have  Ameri- 
can blood  in  you." 

She  said  his  name  as  if  she  loved  it:  on  her  lips  it  was 
a  caress. 

With  a  touch  of  savagery  his  arms  tightened  round  the 
girl.  Even  with  her  in  his  embrace  he  guessed  that  if 
she  knew  of  the  Sultan  Casim  Ammeh  there  would  be  no 
chance  for  him.  His  dark  blood  would  be  an  efficient  bar- 
rier; one  she  would  never  cross  willingly. 

"Say  you  will  marry  me  next  week,  my  little  English 
flower,"  he  said  in  a  fierce,  insistent  tone. 

"I  couldn't  dream  of  getting  married  for  ages  and  ages." 

He  held  her  closer,  kissing  the  vivid  lips  that  refused 
him. 

"Say  next  week,  my  darling,"  he  whispered  passionately. 
"I  shall  keep  you  here  until  you  say  next  week." 

Pansy  looked  at  him  with  love  and  teasing  in  her  eyes. 


106  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA 

"It's  midnight  now,  or  perfc*ps  it's  one,  or  even  two 
in  the  morning.  Time  flies  so  when  I'm  with  you.  But  at 
six  o'clock  the  gardeners  will  be  here  with  rakes  and  brooms, 
and  they'll  scratch  and  sweep  us  out  of  our  corner.  Six 
hours  at  most  you  can  keep  me,  but  the  gardeners  won't 
let  you  keep  me  longer  than  that.  Good-night,  Eaoul,  I'll  go 
to  sleep  in  the  meantime." 

In  a  pretence  of  slumber  Pansy  closed  her  eyes. 

With  a  tender  smile  he  watched  the  little  face  that  looked 
so  peacefully  asleep  on  his  shoulder. 

"Wake  up,  my  flower,  and  say  things  are  to  be  as  I  wish," 
he  said  presently. 

One  eye  opened  and  looked  at  him  full  of  love  and 
mischief. 

"In  ten  years'  time  then,  Eaoul.  That's  a  great  con- 
cession." 

"In  a  fortnight.  That  would  seem  eternity  enough,"  he 
replied. 

"Well,  five  years  then,"  Pansy  answered,  suddenly  wide 
awake.  "I  could  see  and  do  a  lot  in  five  years,  if  I  worked 
hard  at  it.  Especially  with  the  thought  of  you  looming 
ominously  in  the  background/' 

"In  three  weeks,  little  girl.  I've  been  waiting  for  you 
all  my  life." 

Pansy  stroked  his  face  with  a  mocking,  caressing  hand. 

"Poor  boy,  you  don't  look  like  a  waiter." 

He  took  the  small,  teasing  hand  into  his  own. 

"Never  mind  what  I  look  like  just  now,"  he  said.  "Say 
in  three  weeks'  time,  my  darling." 

"Two  years.  Give  me  two  years  to  get  used  to  the 
cramped  idea  of  matrimony." 

"A  month.  Not  a  day  longer,  Heart's  Ease,  unless  you 
want  to  drive  me  quite  mad,"  he  said,  a  note  of  desperate 
entreaty  in  his  voice. 

Suddenly  Pansy  could  not  meet  the  eyes  that  watched  her 
with  such  Jove  and  passion  in  their  smouldering  depths. 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAEA  107 

This  big,  dark  man  who  had  come  into  her  life  so  strangely, 
seemed  to  leave  her  nothing  but  a  desire  for  himself.  At 
that  moment  she  could  refuse  him  nothing. 

"In  a  month  then,  Eaoul.  But  it's  very  weak-minded  of 
me  giving  in  to  you  this  way." 

He  laughed  in  a  tender  and  triumphant  manner. 

"My  darling,  I  promise  you'll  never  regret  it,"  he  said, 
p  slight  catch  in  his  strong  voice. 

Then  he  sat  on,  with  Pansy  pressed  close  against  him. 
And  the  latent  searching  look  had  gone  from  his  eyes,  as 
if  the  girl  lying  on  his  heart  had  brought  him  ease  and 
peace. 

And  Pansy  was  content  to  stay. 

Just  then  it  was  sufficient  to  be  with  him;  to  feel  the 
tender  strength  of  his  arms;  to  listen  to  the  music  of  his 
deep,  caressing  voice;  to  have  his  long,  passionate  kisses. 
Nothing  else  mattered.  Even  liberty  was  forgotten. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  next  morning  the  sun  streaming  into  Pansy's  bedroom 
roused  her.  She  awoke  with  the  feeling  of  having  indulged 
in  some  delightful  dream,  which,  like  all  dreams,  must  melt 
with  the  morning. 

She  thought  of  the  episode  with  Le  Breton  in  the  garden. 
A  gentle  look  lingered  on  her  face.  He  was  a  darling,  the 
nicest  man  she  had  ever  met ;  the  only  one  she  had  ever  liked 
enough  to  let  kiss  her;  the  only  one  in  whose  arms  she  had 
been  content  to  stay.  But  about  marrying? 

A  frown  came  and  rested  on  her  white  brow. 

Marrying  was  quite  another  matter.  In  a  month's  time. 
impossible.  A  thing  not  to  be  contemplated. 

Pansy  sat  up  suddenly,  hugging  her  knees  as  she  gazed 
thoughtfully  at  the  brilliant  expanse  of  dancing,  shimmer- 
ing sea  that  sparkled  at  her  through  the  open  bedroom 
window. 

She,  engaged  to  be  married!  She  who  had  vowed  never 
to  fall  in  love  until  forty! 

It  was  love  Pansy  had  wanted  in  the  moonlit  garden 
with  Le  Breton's  arms  about  her.  But  it  was  liberty  she 
wanted  now,  as  she  sat  hugging  her  knees,  amazed  at  her- 
self and  her  own  behaviour. 

She  had  bartered  her  liberty  for  a  man's  arms  and  a  few 
kisses ! 

Pansy  could  hardly  believe  herself  capable  of  such  folly. 

She  had  been  swept  off  her  feet — over  her  depth  before 
she  knew  it. 

By  daylight  her  freedom  and  independence  were  as  sweet 
to  her  as  Le  Breton's  love  had  been  by  the  romantic  light 
of  the  moon.  In  the  sober  light  of  morning  she  tried  to 
struggle  back  to  where  she  had  been  before  the  hot  flood 

108 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAEA  109 

of  love  he  had  poured  over  her  had  made  her  promise  more 
than  she  was  now  prepared  to  fulfill. 

"It's  a  woman's  privilege  to  change  her  mind." 

Pansy  grasped  at  the  old  adage;  but  to  her  a  promise 
was  a  promise,  not  lightly  given  or  lightly  snatched  away. 
So  she  did  not  derive  much  comfort  from  dwelling  on  the 
old  saw. 

She  was  sitting  up  in  bed,  hugging  her  knees  and  frown- 
ing in  dire  perplexity  when  her  maid  came  in  with  the  early 
morning  tea.  And  the  frown  was  there  when  the  woman 
came  to  say  her  bath  was  ready. 

A  thoughtful  mood  enveloped  her  during  her  dressing. 
And  out  of  her  musing  this  note  was  born: — 

"MY  DEAREST  RAOUL, 

I  can  call  you  that  because  you  are  dearer  to  me  than  any 
one  on  this  earth,  dearest  beyond  all  things  except  my  liberty. 
Do  not  be  horrid  and  cross  when  I  say  I  cannot  marry  you,  in 
spite  of  all  I  promised  last  night.  Not  for  ten  years  at  least. 
And  even  then  I  cannot  bind  myself  in  any  way,  for  I  might  be 
still  hankering  after  freedom.  I  do  love  you  really,  more  than 
anything  in  the  whole  wide  world  except  my  independence. 

You  must  not  be  too  hard  on  me,  Raoul.  I  am  not  quite  the 
same  as  other  women.  It  is  not  every  girl  of  twenty  who  is  her 
own  mistress,  with  £60,000  a  year  to  do  what  she  likes  with. 
It  has  made  life  seem  so  vast,  matrimony  such  a  cramped,  every- 
day affair.  And  I  do  not  want  to  handicap  myself  in  any  way. 

This  letter  sounds  awfully  selfish,  I  know.  I  am  not  selfish 
really.  Only  I  love  my  liberty.  It  is  the  one  thing  that  is  dearer 
to  me  than  you. 

Always  your  loving 
PANSY." 

When  the  letter  was  written,  Pansy  suddenly  remembered 
she  did  not  know  his  address. 

Once  satisfied  that  he  was  disinterested,  she  had  bothered 
about  nothing  else.  And  after  that  one  day  spent  among 
the  red  roses  he  had  become  something  quite  apart  from  the 
rest  of  the  world,  not  to  be  gossiped  about  to  mere  people. 

However,  she  knew  that  twenty  pesetas  given  to  the  hall- 
porter  would  ensure  the  noie  reaching  its  destination.  The 


110  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAEA 

hotel  staff  would  know  where  he  was  staying,  even  if  she 
did  not. 

Because  the  note  was  to  Le  Breton,  Pansy  took  it  down 
herself  and  gave  it  to  the  hall-porter.  When  this  was  done 
she  wandered  as  far  as  the  spot  where  she  had  made  her  fleet- 
ing vows,  to  see  how  it  looked  by  daylight. 

She  lingered  there  for  some  minutes,  and  then  returned 
to  her  suite. 

In  the  interval  a  message  had  come  from  Le  Breton. 

It  stood  on  one  of  the  little  tables  of  her  sitting-room — a 
huge  gilded  wicker  basket  full  of  half -blown,  red  roses.  In 
the  midst  of  the  flowers  a  packet  reposed,  tied  with  red 
ribbon. 

Pansy  opened  the  package. 

Inside  was  the  gold  casket  she  had  once  refused.  It  was 
filled  with  purple  pansies,  still  wet  with  dew.  On  them  a 
ring  reposed,  with  one  huge  sapphire,  deeply  blue  as  her  own 
eyes. 

There  was  a  note  in  with  the  flowers,  written  in  a  strong 
masculine  hand. 

With  a  flutter  about  her  heart,  Pansy  picked  it  out  and 
read  it: — 

"HEART'S  EASE,  MY  OWN  DEAB  LITTLE  GIRL, 

This   little  gift  comes  to  you  with  all  my  love,  my  heart, 
my  soul,  my  very  life  indeed,  given  forever  into  your  keeping. 

A  week  ago,  if  anyone  had.  told  me  I  should  write  such  words 
to  a  woman,  I  should  have  laughed  at  them.  Until  meeting 
you  I  did  not  know  what  love  was.  I  had  no  idea  one  woman 
could  be  so  satisfying.  In  you  I  have  found  the  heaven  I  have 
been  searching  for  all  my  life.  My  one  houri,  and  she  all- 
sufficing — my  little  English  flower,  so  sweet  and  winsome,  so 
kind  and  wayward,  so  teasing  and  yet  so  tender,  who  has 
brought  a  new  fragrance  into  my  life,  a  peace  my  soul  has  never 
known  till  now,  a  love  and  gratitude  into  my  heart  that  will 
keep  me  hers  for  ever. 

Your  devoted  lover  now  and  through  all  eternity. 

RAOUL  LE  BRETON." 

As  Pansy  read  the  note  her  lips  trembled. 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAEA  111 

She  wished  she  had  never  tasted  of  the  sweets  of  liberty 
and  independence;  that  the  grand-godfather  had  not  left  her 
his  millions.  She  wished  she  was  Pansy  Barclay  again,  a 
mere  girl,  not  one  with  enormous  riches  luring  her  towards 
all  sorts  of  goals  where  love  was  not.  Just  Pansy  Barclay, 
who  could  have  met  his  love  with  kisses  and  not  a  cruel 
counter  note. 


OHAPTEE  XV 

CONSIDERING  it  was  nearly  two  in  the  morning  before  Le 
Breton  would  let  Pansy  out  of  his  arms,  he  did  not  expect 
her  to  be  out  and  about  at  six  o'clock  for  her  usual  ride. 
Nevertheless,  he  looked  in  at  the  hotel  at  that  hour  and  then 
rode  on,  indulging  in  blissful  daydreams. 

He  knew  Pansy  had  no  idea  who  he  really  was.  He  was 
prepared  to  marry  her  according  to  her  creed,  for  her  sake  to 
put  aside  the  fierce  profligate  religion  the  late  Sultan  Casim 
Ammeh  had  instilled  into  him. 

And  he  was  prepared  to  do  very  much  more  than  this. 

In  spite  of  his  colossal  pride  in  his  sultanship  and  his 
desert  kingdom,  he  knew  that  if  Pansy  got  an  inkling  of  that 
side  of  his  life  his  case  would  be  hopeless.  His  one  idea 
was  to  keep  all  knowledge  of  the  supposed  Arab  strain  in 
him  from  her.  The  sultanship  could  go,  his  kingdom  be  but 
a  source  of  income.  He  would  buy  a  house  in  Paris.  They 
would  settle  down  there,  and  he  would  become  wholly  the 
European  she  imagined  him  to  be. 

Full  of  a  future  that  held  nothing  but  the  English  girl  to 
whom;  he  was  betrothed,  and  a  desire  to  keep  from  her  all 
knowledge  of  his  dark,  savage  heritage,  at  least  until  it  would 
be  too  late  for  her  to  draw  back,  Le  Breton  rode  on,  rejoic- 
ing in  the  early  morning  freshness  that  reminded  him  of  the 
girl  he  loved. 

On  returning  to  the  villa  he  interviewed  the  head  gardener. 
Then  he  went  to  the  library  to  write  a  note  and  tie  up  the 
package  he  was  sending  to  Pansy;  and  from  there  down  to 
breakfast,  a  solitary  meal  with  no  companion  save  a  few 
purple  pansies  smiling  at  him  from  a  crystal  vase. 

As  he  sat  at  his  light  repast  one  of  his  Arab  servants  en- 
tered with  a  note  on  a  beaten-gold  salver. 

112 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAEA  113 

Le  Breton  took  it. 

On  the  envelope  was  just  his  name,  written  in  a  pretty, 
girlish  hand.  Although  he  had  never  seen  Pansy's  writing 
before,  he  guessed  it  was  hers.  A  tender  smile  hovered  about 
his  hard  mouth  as  he  opened  it. 

What  had  she  to  say  to  him,  this  slim,  winsome  girl,  who 
held  his  fierce  heart  in  her  small  white  hands  ?  Some  fond 
reply,  no  doubt,  in  return  for  his  gifts  and  flowers.  Thanks 
and  words  of  love  that  she  could  not  keep  until  he  went 
round  to  see  her. 

There  were  many  things  Le  Breton  expected  of  Pansy, 
but  certainly  not  the  news  the  note  contained. 

He  read  it  through,  unable  to  believe  what  he  saw  written 
before  him.  And  as  he  read  his  face  lost  all  its  tender, 
caressing  look  and  took  on,  instead,  a  savage,  incredulous 
expression. 

Women  had  always  come  to  him  easily,  as  easily  as  Pansy 
herself  had  come.  But  they  had  not  withdrawn  themselves 
again :  he  had  done  the  withdrawing. 

For  some  moments  he  just  stared  at  the  note. 

He,  flouted  and  scorned  and  played  with  by  a  girl!  He, 
to  whom  all  women  were  but  toys!  He,  the  Sultan  of  El- 
Ammeh! 

Le  Breton  was  like  one  plunged  suddenly  into  an  icy  cold., 
bath. 

The  unexpectedness  of  it  all  left  him  numb.  Then  a 
surge  of  hot  rage  went  through  him,  finally  leaving  him  cold, 
collected,  and  furious. 

She  had  dared  to  scorn  him,  this  English  girl!  Dared 
to  hurl  his  love  and  protestations  back  into  his  teeth.  Pro- 
testations such  as  he  had  made  to  no  other  woman. 

It  was  the  greatest  shock  and  surprise  Le  Breton  had  had 
during  the  course  of  his  wild  life  of  unquestioned  power  and 
limitless  money. 

He  was  in  no  mood  to  see  the  love  her  note  breathed.  H** 
saw  only  one  fact — that  he  had  been  cast  aside. 


114  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA 

A  woman  had  dared  to  act  towards  him  as  he  had  often 
acted  towards  women. 

As  he  brooded  on  the  note,  trying  to  grasp  the  almost  in- 
credible truth,  the  cruel  look  about  his  mouth  deepened. 

Putting  the  note  into  his  pocket,  he  poured  himself 
another  cup  of  coft'ee.  Then  he  sat  on,  staring  at  the  purple 
pansies,  no  longer  lost  in  dreams  of  love  and  delight,  where 
his  one  aim  was  to  be  all  the  girl  imagined  him  to  be ;  but  in 
a  savage  reverie  that  had  love  in  it,  perhaps,  but  of  quite 
another  quality  than  that  which  he  had  already  offered. 

Full  of  anger  and  injured  pride  as  Le  Breton  was,  it  did 
not  prevent  him  going  over  to  the  hotel  and  inquiring  for 
Miss  Langham. 

He  learnt  that  she  was  out,  on  board  her  yacht.  And  it 
seemed  to  him  that  she  had  fled  from  his  wrath. 

But  he  was  wrong. 

Pansy  had  gone  there  knowing  he  would  be  sure  to  come 
and  inquire  into  the  meaning  of  her  note.  On  board  her 
yacht  there  was  more  privacy  ;  a  privacy  she  wanted  for 
Le  Breton's  sake,  not  her  own.  Considering  his  fiery  Latin 
temperament,  he  might  not  take  his  conge  in  the  manner  of 
her  more  stolid  nation.  There  might  be  a  scene. 

She  never  imagined  he  would  take  her  decree  calmly. 
There  was  an  air  about  him  as  if  he  had  never  been  thwarted 
in  any  way.  She  was  prepared  for  some  unpleasant  minutes 
— minutes,  nevertheless,  that  she  had  no  intention  of  shirk- 
ing, which  she  knew  she  had  brought  upon  herself  by  her 
impetuous  promises. 

She  was  sitting  alone  in  her  own  special  sanctum  on  the 
yacht. 

It  was  a  large  saloon — boudoir,  music-room,  and  study 
combined;  white  and  gold  and  purple,  like  herself,  with  a 
grand  piano  in  one  corner,  deep  chairs  upholstered  in  yellow 
with  purple  cushions,  a  yellow  carpet  and  white  walls  and 
ceiling. 

In  the  midst  of  it  she  sat  cool  and  collected,  in  a  simple 
white  yachting  suit. 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA  115 

As  Le  Breton  entered  she  rose,  scanning  him  quickly. 
She  had  never  seen  him  so  proud  and  aloof-looking,  his  face 
so  set  and  hard.  But  there  was  a  look  of  suppressed  suffer- 
ing in  his  eyes  that  cut  her  to  the  quick. 

Neither  said  a  word  until  the  door  closed  behind  the 
steward. 

Then  Le  Breton  crossed  to  the  girl's  side. 

"What  nonsense  is  this?"  he  asked  in  a  cold,  angry  voice, 
holding  her  note  towards  her.  "You  promised  to  marry 
me,  and  you  must  carry  out  your  promise.  I'm  not  going  to 
be  put  lightly  to  one  side  in  this  manner." 

"I  haven't  put  you  lightly  to  one  side,"  she  answered. 
"  I  think  I  explained  exactly  how  things  were  in  my  note." 

"Explanations!  I'm  not  here  for  explanations,"  he  said, 
with  cold  impatience;  <cbut  to  insist  that  you  fulfill  your 
promise." 

"I  couldn't  do  that,"  she  replied  quietly. 

With  the  air  of  still  moving  in  the  midst  of  some  incredi- 
ble truth,  he  stared  at  her. 

"You've  been  flirting  with  me,"  he  said  presently,  a  note 
of  savagery  and  scorn  in  his  voice.  "You  are  a  true  English 
demievierge.  You  rouse  a  man  without  the  least  intention 
of  satisfying  him." 

Pansy  flushed  under  his  contempt.  She  hated  being 
called  "a  flirt";  she  was  not  one.  She  did  not  know  why 
she  had  acted  as  she  had  done  the  previous  night.  But  once, 
in  his  arms,  she  had  wanted  to  stay.  And  once  he  had  started 
talking  of  love,  she  wanted  to  listen.  With  him  she  had  for- 
gotten all  about  her  own  scheme  of  life  and  her  cherished 
liberty. 

She  knew  she  had  not  played  the  game  with  Le  Breton. 
From  the  bottom  of  her  heart  she  was  sorry.  She  did  not 
blame  him,  but  herself. 

"I'm  not  a  flirt,"  she  said  quietly.     "I've  never  let  any 
man  kiss  me  before.  I'm  very  sorry  for  all  that  happened  last 
night." 
•    He  laughed  in  a  harsh,  grating  manner. 


116  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAEA 

"Good  God,  Pansy !  there  are  a  hundred  women  and  more 
plotting  and  scheming  to  try  and  make  me  feel  for  them 
what  I  feel  for  you.  And  you  say  you're  sorry !" 

He  broke  off,  his  proud  face  twisted  with  pain  and  chagrin. 

Pansy  knew  his  was  no  idle  boast.  An  army  of  women 
must  lie  in  wait  for  a  man  of  his  wealth  combined  with  good 
looks  and  such  powers  of  fascination. 

"I'm  only  sorry  you  picked  on  me,"  she  said,  a  note  of 
distress  in  her  voice.  "More  sorry  than  I  can  say.  You 
know  I  hate  giving  pain." 

Like  one  dazed,  the  Sultan  Casim  Ammeh  listened  to  a 
woman  saying  she  was  sorry  he  had  favoured  her  as  he 
had  no  other  of  her  sex — To  an  extent  he  had  never  im- 
agined he  would  favour  any  woman,  so  that  he  was  ready  to 
change  his  religion,  his  whole  mode  of  life,  for  her  sake. 

"But  I  couldn't  give  up  my  liberty,"  her  voice  was  saying. 
"I  couldn't  get  married.  And  I've  a  perfect  right  to  change 
my  mind." 

"It's  not  a  privilege  I  intend  to  allow  you,"  he  said  in  a 
strangled  voice. 

"Well,  it's  one  I  intend  to  assert,"  she  answered,  sud- 
denly goaded  by  his  imperious  attitude. 

"You've  deliberately  fooled  me,"  he  said  savagely. 

"No,  I  haven't  really,"  she  replied,  patient  again  under 
the  pain  in  the  fierce,  restless  eyes  watching  her.  "I  like 
you  immensely,  but  not  enough  to  marry  you." 

"I  suppose  I  ought  to  feel  flattered,"  he  said  cuttingly. 

Pansy  laid  a  hand  on  his  sleeve  with  a  little  soothing, 
conciliatory  gesture. 

"Don't  be  so  horrid,  Eaoul.  Do  try  and  see  things  as  I 
see  them.  I  didn't  mean  to  say  'yes'  last  night;  but  when 
you  held  me  in  your  arms  and  kissed  me  there  was  nothing 
else  I  could  do." 

His  name  on  her  lips,  her  touch  on  his  arm,  broke  through 
his  seethe  of  cold  anger. 

"And  if  I  held  and  kissed  you  again,  what  then?"  he 
asked,  suddenly  melting. 


A  SON  OP  THE  SAHABA  117 

"Here  in  the  'garish  light  of  day'  it  wouldn't  alter  my 
intention  in  the  least/'  she  said.  "There  are  so  many  things 
that  call  me  in  the  daytime.  But  last  night,  Kaoul,  there 
was  only  you." 

He  bent  over  her,  dark  and  handsome,  looking  the  king 
the  Sultan  Casim  Ammeh  had  made  him. 

"Give  me  the  nights,  Pansy,"  he  whispered,  "and  the 
days  I'll  leave  to  you." 

"Oh  no,  I  couldn't.  Before  so  long  you'd  have  swallowed 
up  my  days  too.  For  there's  an  air  about  you  as  if  you 
wouldn't  be  satisfied  until  you  had  the  whole  of  me.  But 
I  shall  often  think  of  last  night,"  she  went  on,  a  touch  of 
longing  in  her  voice.  "In  days  to  come,  when  we're  thou- 
sands of  miles  apart,  in  the  midst  of  my  schemes,  when 
the  lights  are  brightest  and  the  bands  their  loudest  and  the 
fun  at  its  highest,  I  shall  stop  all  at  once  with  a  little  pain 
in  my  heart  and  wonder  where  the  nice  man  is  who  kissed 
me  under  the  palms  in  the  Grand  Canary.  And  I  shall  say 
to  myself,  'Now,  if  I'd  been  a  marrying  sort,  I'd  have  married 
him.'  And  twenty  years  hence,  when  pleasure  palls,  I  shall 
wish  I  had  married  him;  because  there'll  never  be  any  man 
I  shall  like  half  as  much  as  I  like  you." 

As  she  talked  Le  Breton  watched  her,  wild  schemes  bud- 
ding and  blossoming  in  his  head. 

"And  I?    What  shall  I  be  thinking?"  he  asked. 

"You!  Oh,  you'll  have  forgotten  all  about  me  by  next 
year — Perhaps  next  month,  even,"  she  replied,  smiling  at 
him  rather  sadly.  "One  girl  is  much  the  same  to  you  as 
the  next,  provided  she's  equally  pretty.  And  you'll  be  think- 
ing, *What  an  idiotic  fuss  I  made  over  that  girl  I  met  in 
Grand  Canary.  Let  me  see,  what  was  her  name?  Violet 
or  Daisy,  or  some  stupid  flower  name.  Who  said  yes  in 
the  moonlight,  and  no  in  the  cool,  calm  light  of  day. 
Good  Lord!  but  for  her  sense  I  should  be  married  now. 
Married!  Phew,  what  an  escape!  For  if  she'd  roped  me 
in  there'd  have  been  no  gallivanting  with  other  women'!" 
,  Le  Breton  laughed. 


118  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA 

"Now  I'm  forgiven/'  she  said  quickly. 

"Forgiven,  Heart's  Ease,  yes.  But  whilst  there's  life  in 
me  you'll  never  be  forgotten." 

He  paused,  looking  at  her  speculatively. 

"So  far  as  I  see,  there's  nothing  between  us  except  that 
you're  too  fond  of  your  own  way  to  get  married,"  he  re- 
marked presently. 

"Yes.    I  suppose  that's  it  really." 

"  'If  I  were  a  king  in  Babylon  and  you  were  a  Christian 
slave/  "  he  quoted,  "or,  to  get  down  to  more  modern  times, 
if  I  were  a  barbaric  Sultan  somewhere  in  Africa  and  you  a 
girl  I'd  fancied  and  caught  and  carried  off,  I'd  just  take  you 
into  my  harem  and  nothing  more  would  be  said." 

"I  should  fight  like  a  wildcat.  You'd  get  horribly 
scratched  and  bitten." 

"Possibly,  but — I  should  win  in  the  end." 

Pansy's  face  went  suddenly  crimson  under  the  glowing 
eyes  that  watched  her  with  such  love  and  deeire  in  their  dark 
depths. 

"I  think  we're  talking  a  lot  of  nonsense,"  she  remarked. 

"What  is  it  you  English  say?  'There's  many  a  true  word 
spoken  in  jest/  "  he  replied  with  curious  emphasis. 

It  was  not  jest  to  him. 

Even  as  he  stood  talking  to  Pansy  he  was  cogitating  on 
how  he  could  best  get  her  into  his  power,  should  persuasion 
fail  to  bring  her  back  to  his  arms  within  a  week  or  two. 

His  yacht  was  in  the  harbour.  She  was  in  the  habit  of 
wandering  about  alone.  He  had  half  a  dozen  Arab  servants 
with  him,  men  who  would  do  without  question  anything 
their  Sultan  told  them.  To  abduct  her  would  be  an  easy 
matter.  Once  she  was  in  his  power,  he  would  take  her  to 
El-Ammeh  and  keep  her  there.  As  his  wife,  if  she  would 
marry  him;  as  his  slave,  if  she  would  not. 

Le  Breton  had  no  desire  to  do  any  such  thing  except  as 
a  last  resource,  but  he  had  no  intention  of  letting  Pansy  go. 

Her  voice  broke  into  his  broodings. 

"Since  you've  been  so  nice  about  everything,  I'm  going 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA  119 

to  keep  you  and  take  yon  for  a  cruise  round  the  island. 
I  want  to  have  just  one  day  alone  with  you,  so  that  in  years 
to  come  I  shall  know  exactly  how  much  I've  missed." 

He  smiled  in  a  slightly  savage  manner.  It  amused  him 
to  hear  the  girl  talking  as  if  he  were  but  a  pleasant  incident 
in  her  life,  when  he  intended  to  be  the  biggest  fact  that  had 
ever  been  there. 

"In  your  way  of  doing  things,  Pansy,  you  remind  me 
rather  of  myself,"  he  remarked.  "You're  carrying  me  off, 
willy  nilly,  as  I  might  be  tempted  to  carry  you." 

"It  must  be  because  we're  both  millionaires,"  she  replied. 
"Little  facts  of  the  sort  are  apt  to  make  one  a  trifle  high- 
handed." 

She  touched  a  bell. 

When  a  steward  appeared  she  put  Le  Breton  into  his  care. 
Leaving  the  saloon,  she  went  herself  to  interview  the  captain 
about  her  plans. 

She  was  leaning  against  the  yacht's  rail,  slim  and  white, 
with  the  breeze  blowing  her  curls  when  Le  Breton  joined  her. 
And  she  smiled  at  him  in  a  frank,  boyish  fashion,  as  if  their 
little  difference  of  opinion  had  never  been. 

"What  can  I  do  to  amuse  you?"  she  asked. 

"I  don't  need  any  amusing  when  I'm  with  you,"  he  said. 
"You're  all-sufficing." 

"You  mustn't  say  things  like  that,  Raoul,"  she  replied; 
"they're  apt  to  make  one's  decisions  wobble." 

For  Pansy  the  morning  sped  quickly.  For  Le  Breton  it 
was  part  of  the  dream  he  had  dreamt  before  her  note  had 
come  and  upset  his  calculations,  making  him  rearrange  his 
plans  in  a  manner  that,  although  it  would  give  him  a  certain 
amount  of  satisfaction,  might  not  be  so  pleasing  to  the  girl. 

The  vessel  skirted  the  rounded  island,  bringing  glimpses 
of  quiet  bays  where  white  houses  nestled,  rocky  cliffs, 
stony  barrancos  cut  deep  into  the  hill-side,  and  pine-clad 
heights. 

There  was  a  lunch  a  deux,  with  attentive  stewards  hover- 
ing in  the  background.  Afterwards  they  had  coffee  and 


ISO  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA 

liqueurs  and  cigarettes  on  deck.  An  hour  or  so  was  dawdled 
away  there,  then  Pansy  took  her  guest  back  to  her  own 
special  sanctum. 

He  went  over  to  the  piano,  touching  a  note  here  and 
there. 

"Play  me  something,"  she  said,  for  he  touched  the  instru- 
ment with  the  hand  of  a  music  lover. 

"I  was  brought  up  in  the  backwoods/'  he  replied,  "and 
I  never  saw  a  piano  until  I  was  nearly  nineteen.  After  that 
I  was  too  busy  making  money  and  doing  what  I  thought 
was  enjoying  myself  to  have  time  to  go  in  for  anything  of 
the  sort.  But  I'd  like  to  listen  to  you,"  he  finished. 

Willingly  Pansy  seated  herself  at  the  piano.  Le  Breton 
likewise  sat  himself  in  a  deep  chair  close  by,  and  gave  himself 
up  to  the  delight  of  her  playing.  She  wandered  from  one 
song  to  another,  quick  to  see  she  had  an  appreciative 
audience. 

In  the  end  she  paused  and  glanced  at  him  as  he  sat  quiet, 
all  his  restless  look  gone,  as  if  at  peace  with  himself  and  the 
world. 

"Does  music  'soothe  your  savage  breast'?"  she  asked. 

"It  could  nover  be  savage  where  you're  concerned,  Pansy." 

"You  talk  as  if  I  were  quite  different  from  other  people." 

"So  you  are.     The  only   woman  I've  ever   loved." 

"When  you  talk  like  that,  the  wobbling  comes  on,"  she 
remarked. 

To  avoid  his  reply,  she  started  playing  again. 

Getting  to  his  feet,  Le  Breton  went  to  the  piano.  Stand- 
ing behind  her,  his  arms  encircling  her,  he  lifted  the  small, 
music-making  hands  from  the  keys,  and  holding  them,  drew 
her  back  until  her  head  rested  against  him. 

"Pansy,  suppose  I  consent  to  a  six  months'  engagement? 
The  waiting  would  be  purgatory;  but  I  could  do  it  with 
paradise  beyond." 

"I'm  not  taking  on  any  engagements.  Not  for  the  next 
ten  years,  at  least." 

He  laughed  softly  and  put  the  slim  hands  back  on  the 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA  121 

piano  with  a  lingering,  careful  touch,  letting  them  pursue 
their  way.  Whether  she  liked  it  or  not,  this  lovely,  wayward 
girl  would  be  his  before  many  weeks  had  passed. 

Then  he  returned  to  his  chair  and  sat  there  deep  in  some 
reverie,  this  time  not  planning  the  sort  of  home  he  would 
make  for  her  in  Paris,  but  how  he  would  have  certain  rooms 
in  his  palace  at  El-Ammeh  furnished  for  her  reception. 

A  steward  announcing  tea  brought  him  out  of  his  medi- 
tations. 

Tea  was  served  on  deck,  with  the  sun  glinting  on  the  blue 
water  and  running  in  golden  cascades  down  the  hill-side. 

Together  they  watched  the  sun  set  and  saw  night  barely 
shadow  the  world  when  the  moon  rose,  filling  the  scene  with 
silver  glory. 

Its  white  light  led  them  back  into  harbour,  and  in  its 
flood  the  two  walked  to  the  hotel  together. 

In  the  garden  Le  Breton  paused  to  take  leave  of  his 
hostess. 

"Just  one  kiss,  Heart's  Ease,  for  the  sake  of  last  night," 
he  whispered. 

Willingly  Pansy  lifted  her  flower-like  face  to  his. 

"Just  one  then,  Raoul,  you  darling,  since  you've  been  so 
nice  about  everything." 

As  Le  Breton  stooped  to  kiss  her  it  seemed  to  him  that  he 
would  not  have  to  resort  to  force  in  order  to  get  the  girl. 
Only  a  little  patience  and  persuasion  were  needed,  and  he 
would  win  her  in  her  own,  white,  English  way. 


CHAPTEK  XVI 

ALONG  the  deserted  corridor  of  the  big  hotel  Pansy  was 
hurrying.  Her  outing  with  Le  Breton  had  made  her  late. 
By  the  time  she  was  dressed  and  ready  dinner  was  well 
started.  She  went  along  quickly,  still  thinking  over  the 
events  of  the  day. 

Everything  had  turned  out  exactly  as  she  had  hoped.  She 
wanted  to  keep  Le  Breton's  love,  and  yet  not  be  tied  in  any 
way — to  have  him  in  the  background  to  marry  if,  or  when, 
she  felt  so  disposed. 

In  the  full  glare  of  the  electric  light,  going  down  the  wide 
stairs,  she  entered  the  large  patio,  looking  a  picture. 

She  was  wearing  a  dress  of  some  yellow,  gauzy  material 
that  matched  her  hair,  a  garment  that  clung  around  her 
like  a  sunbeam,  bright  and  shimmering.  There  were  gold 
shoes  on  her  feet,  and  around  her  neck  a  long  chain  of  yellow 
amber  beads. 

As  she  crossed  the  big,  empty  hall,  making  towards  the 
dining-room,  a  man  rose  from  his  chair — the  short,  red- 
faced  man  from  whom  Le  Breton  had  rescued  her  a  few 
nights  before. 

There  was  an  air  about  him  as  if  he  had  been  waiting 
there  to  waylay  her. 

Pansy  saw  him  and  she  swerved  slightly,  but  beyond  that 
she  gave  him  no  attention. 

However,  he  was  not  so  easily  avoided. 

He  took  up  his  stand  immediately  before  her,  leering  at 
her  in  a  malicious,  disagreeable  fashion. 

"You're  fond  of  chucking  red-haired  women  in  my  teeth," 
he  said.  "Go  and  chuck  'em  at  the  fellow  you  were  spooning 
with  outside  just  now." 

Annoyed  that  the  man  should  have  witnessed  her  part- 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAEA  123 

ing  with  Le  Breton,  Pansy  would  have  passed  without  a 
word;  but  he  dodged,  and  was  in  front  of  her  again. 

"At  least,  she  isn't  my  fancy  woman,"  he  went  on.  "I 
don't  run  a  villa  for  her,  even  if  I  do  admire  her  looks/' 

The  weight  of  insinuation  in  his  voice  brought  the  girl  to 
a  halt. 

"What  is  it?  What  do  you  want  to  say?"  she  asked 
coldly. 

"You  mean  to  tell  me  you  don't  know  Le  Breton  runs 
that  French  actress,  Lucille  Lemesurier?" 

Pansy  did  not  know.  Nor  did  she  believe  a  word  the  man 
said. 

"How  dare  you  say  such  things  about  Mr.  Le  Breton?" 
she  flashed. 

"Hoity-toity !     How  dare  I  indeed !" 

He  laughed  coarsely. 

"It  isn't  only  me  that's  talking  about  it  Everybody 
knows/'  he  went  on. 

Everybody  did  not  know.     Pansy  among  the  number. 

"I  don't  believe  a  word  you  say,"  she  said  in  an  angry 
manner. 

"Don't  you?  All  right.  Trot  along  then,  and  ask  the 
manager.  Ask  anybody.  They're  all  talking  about  it. 
You  would  be,  too,  except  that  you're  so  conceited  that  you 
never  come  and  gossip  with  the  crowd.  Ask  who  is  running 
that  villa  for  Lucille  Lemesurier.  and  they'll  tell  you  it's 
that  high  and  mighty  French  millionaire  chap,  Le  Breton, 
the  same  as  I  do." 

For  a  moment  Pansy  just  stared  at  him,  horror  and  dis- 
belief on  her  face;  then  she  turned  quickly  away.  She  did 
not  go  towards  the  dining-room,  but  towards  the  main  en- 
trance of  the  hotel. 

She  had  never  troubled  to  make  any  inquiries  about  Le 
Breton.  She  had  liked  him,  and  that  was  enough. 

Pansy  could  not  believe  what  the  man  said. 

For  all  that,  she  was  going  to  the  fountain-head — to  Le 
Breton — to  hear  what  he  had  to  say  on  the  subject 


CHAPTER  XVII 

A  FLOOD  of  light  poured  out  from  Le  Breton's  villa,  from 
wide-open  French  windows  on  to  a  moonlit  lawn.  Around 
the  house,  palms  drooped  and  bamboos  whispered.  The 
night  was  laden  with  the  scent  of  roses  and  syringa,  and 
about  the  fragrant  shrubs  fireflies  glinted  like  showers  of 
silver  sparks. 

In  one  of  the  apartments  opening  on  the  lawn  Le  Breton 
sat  at  dinner  with  Lucille,  over  a  little  round  table,  sparkling 
with  crystal  and  gold,  where  pink-shaded  electric  lights 
glowed  among  banks  of  flowers. 

It  was  a  large  room,  lavishly  furnished,  with  priceless  rugs, 
and  furniture  that  might  have  come  out  of  some  Paris 
museum.  There  were  three  Arab  servants  in  attendance, 
deft-handed,  silent  men,  well  trained,  and  observant,  who 
waited  upon  their  master  as  if  their  lives  held  nothing  but 
his  wishes  and  desires. 

Opposite  to  him  Lucille  sat,  in  a  white  satin  gown 
that  left  none  of  her  charms  to  the  imagination,  with  the 
emerald  necklace  flashing  against  her  dead-white  skin. 

She  was  talking  in  a  soft,  languid  voice,  sometimes  witty, 
often  suggestive,  but  never  at  a  loss  for  a  subject,  as  women 
do  talk  who  are  paid  well  to  interest  and  amuse  their  masters. 

Le  Breton  did  not  look  either  particularly  interested  or 
amused.  In  fact,  he  looked  bored  and  indifferent,  answer- 
ing her  in  monosyllables,  as  if  her  perpetual  chatter  inter- 
rupted some  pleasant  reverie  of  his  own. 

As  he  sat,  intent  on  his  own  thoughts,  one  of  the  servants 
came  to  his  side.  Stooping,  he  said  in  a  deferential  voice 
in  Arabic: 

"There  is  the  English  lady  your  Highness  deigned  to 
breakfast  with  in  the  orange  groves  of  Telde." 

124 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAHA  125 

Le  Breton  started.  He  glanced  round,  his  gaze  following 
the  Arab's  to  one  of  the  wide  French  windows  opening  on 
the  lawn. 

Standing  there,  light  and  slight,  a  graceful,  golden  reed, 
was  the  girl  who  was  now  all  the  world  to  him. 

But  Pansy  was  not  looking  in  his  direction,  but  at  Lucille, 
as  if  she  could  not  believe  what  she  saw  before  her. 

The  sight  brought  Le  Breton  quickly  to  his  feet. 

"Pansy!"  he  exclaimed. 

His  voice  and  action  made  Lucille  glance  towards  the 
window. 

She  looked  at  the  girl  standing  there;  then  she  smiled 
lazily,  a  trifle  maliciously. 

Lucille  saw  before  her  the  rival  she  had  suspected,  who 
had  changed  Le  Breton's  lukewarm  liking  into  cutting  in- 
difference. With  the  perception  of  her  kind  she  realised 
that  Pansy  was  something  quite  different  from  herself  and 
the  women  Le  Breton  usually  amused  himself  with.  That 
slim  girl  with  her  wide,  purple  eyes  and  vivid,  flower-like 
face  was  no  courtesan,  no  toy;  but  a  woman  with  a  spirit 
and  a  soul  that  could  hold  and  draw  a  man,  apart  from  her 
physical  attractions;  the  sort  of  woman,  in  fact,  that  a 
man  like  Eaoul  Le  Breton  might  be  tempted  to  marry. 

At  sound  of  his  voice  Pansy  came  into  the  room,  her  eyes 
blazing,  her  breast  heaving,  her  two  hands  clutching  the  long 
amber  chain  in  an  effort  to  keep  herself  calm  and  collected. 

So  it  was  true !  He  was  living  here  with  that  red-haired 
creature,  this  man  who  had  come  to  her  vowing  she  was 
the  only  woman  he  had  ever  loved !  This  man  whom  she 
had  kissed  and  whom  she  had  allowed  to  kiss  and  fondle 
her! 

Pansy  looked  at  Lucille  in  her  white  satin  and  emeralds — 
Lucille,  big  and  voluptuous,  her  profession  written  on  her 
face. 

"Who  is  that  woman?"  she  demanded. 

Lucille  did  not  wait  for  Le  Breton  to  answer. 

One  glance  at  him  told  her  everything.     On  his  face  were 


126  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAEA 

concern,  love,  and  annoyance;  the  look  that  comes  to  a 
man's  face  when  the  girl  he  would  make  his  wife  and  the 
woman  who  is  his  mistress  by  some  unfortunate  circum- 
stance chance  to  meet. 

Her  star,  never  particularly  bright,  had  waned  and  set 
within  a  week,  all  thanks  to  this  slim  girl  in  the  yellow 
dress.  Any  day  she,  Lucille,  might  be  shipped  back  to 
France,  with  only  the  emera'd  necklace  to  soothe  her  sore 
heart. 

As  things  were  she  could  lose  nothing,  and  she  might 
have  the  pleasure  of  parting  Le  Breton  from  the  woman  he 
really  loved.  The  girl  looked  one  who  would  countenance  no 
backslidings. 

Before  he  could  say  anything  she  said  in  a  languid  voice : 

"My  name  is  Lucille  Lemesurier.  I'm  an  actress.  At  Mr. 
Le  Breton'a  invitation  I  came  here  with  him  from  Paris,  to 
stay  until  he  tires  of  me  or  I  of  him.  Comme  vous  voulez," 
she  finished,  with  a  shrug. 

For  a  moment  Pansy  just  stared  at  the  truth  confronting 
her:  the  truth,  lazy,  languid,  and  smiling,  in  white  satin 
and  emeralds. 

There  was  a  little  noise,  hard  and  sharp,  like  a  shower 
of  frozen  tears  rattling  down  on  the  table.  The  hands 
clinging  to  the  string  of  amber  beads  clung  just  a  thought 
too  hard,  for  the  necklace  snapped  suddenly.  The  beads 
poured  down  like  tears — the  tears  Pansy  herself  was  past 
shedding.  The  knowledge  of  Le  Breton's  treachery  and  de- 
ceit had  turned  her  into  ice. 

She  cast  one  look  at  him  of  utter  contempt  and  scorn. 

Then,  silently  as  she  had  come,  she  turned  and  went  from 
the  room. 

She  did  not  get  far,  however,  before  Le  Breton  was  at 
her  side. 

Ignoring  him,  she  hurried  across  the  moonlit  lawn,  her 
only  desire  to  escape  from  his  presence. 

"Pansy "  he  began. 

Like  a  whM-vind  she  turned  on  him.    With  a  hand  that 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHABA  127 

shook  with  rage,  she  pointed  to  the  open  dining-room 
window. 

"Go!  Go  back  to  that  red-haired  creature,"  she  said  in 
a  voice  that  trembled  with  anger.  "I  never  want  to  see  or 
speak  to  you  again.  Never!" 

At  her  words  Le  Breton's  hands  clenched  and  his  swarthy 
face  went  white. 

"Do  you  think  I'm  going  to  be  dismissed  in  this  manner?" 
he  asked  in  a  strangled  voice. 

Without  a  further  word  Pansy  would  have  hurried  on; 
but,  before  she  knew  what  was  happening,  he  had  taken 
her  into  his  arms. 

"How  dare  you  touch  me!  How  dare  you  touch  me!" 
she  gasped,  struggling  furiously  after  freedom,  amazed  at 
his  audacity. 

But  he  laughed  and,  crushing  her  against  him,  kissed  her 
fiercely. 

Le  Breton  knew  his  case  was  hopeless.  No  amount  of 
persuasion  would  bring  the  girl  back  to  his  arms.  He  was 
no  longer  a  polished  man  of  the  world,  but  the  Sultan  of 
El-Ammeh,  a  barbaric  ruler  who  knew  no  law  save  his  own 
desire. 

Pansy  was  too  furious  to  be  afraid.  With  all  her  might 
she  struggled  to  get  away  from  his  arms  and  the  deluge  of 
hot,  passionate  kisses,  not  because  of  the  danger  oozing  from 
the  man,  but  because  she  knew  he  had  held  and  kissed  that 
other  woman. 

But  all  her  struggle?  were  in  vain.  She  was  helpless 
against  his  strength;  crushed  within  his  arms;  almost 
breathless  under  the  force  and  passion  of  the  kisses  she 
could  not  escape  from. 

"If  you  go  on  behaving  in  this  brutal  manner  I  shall 
scream,"  she  panted  presently. 

Her  words  sobered  him. 

The  road  lay  not  twenty  yards  away,   and  her  screams 

might  bring  a  dozen  people  to  her  rescue.     He  remembered 

<    that  he  was  in  Grand  Canary,  where  even  he  had  to  conform 


128  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA 

with  rales,  Dot  in  El-Ammeh,  where  none  would  dare 
question  his  doings. 

He  let  Pansy  out  of  his  arms. 

"Look  what  a  state  you've  put  me  in!"  she  flashed 
the  moment  she  was  free,  as  she  endeavoured  to  tidy  her 
torn  and  crumpled  dress  with  hands  that  shook  with  anger. 
"You're  a  brute.  A  savage.  I  hate  you!"  she  finished. 

But  Le  Breton  just  stood  and  laughed. 

To-night  she  might  go;  but  to-morrow ! 

To-morrow  she  would  be  on  his  yacht,  where  she  might 
scream  to  her  heart's  content  without  a  soul  coming  to  her 
rescue. 

His  laughter,  fierce  and  fond,  followed  Pansy  from  th« 
garden. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE  hotel  patio  was  full  of  people  just  out  from  dinner.  In 
the  midst  of  a  crowd  of  acquaintances  Captain  Cameron 
stood,  laughing  and  talking  with  those  around  him. 

All  at  once  a  voice  at  his  elbow  said  tensely: 

"Bob,  I  want  to  speak  to  you  alone  for  a  moment." 

He  turned  quickly.  Then  he  stood  surveying  the  speaker 
with  surprise,  for  the  girl  beside  him  looked  very  different 
from  the  Pansy  he  knew.  There  was  an  almost  tortured 
air  about  her.  Her  face  was  set  and  white;  there  were 
deep,  dark  rings  under  eyes  that  were  limpid  pools  of  pain. 

"Hello,  old  pal,  what  has  happened?"  he  asked,  with 
concern. 

Pansy  did  not  stop  to  answer  him.  With  impatient  hands 
she  led  him  away  from  the  crowd  of  listening,  staring  people 
into  a  quiet  corner. 

"I'm  going  back  to  England  at  once.  To-night!  Help 
me  to  get  off,  please/'  she  said. 

With  blank  amazement  Cameron  stared  at  her. 

"What's  got  hold  of  you  now?"  he  managed  to  ask. 

"I'm  going  home,"  she  said,  "at  once." 

"But  I  thought  you  were  staying  here  until  Sir  George 
came  out?" 

"Well,  I've  changed  my  mind,"  she  snapped.  "And  I'm 
going  back,  even  if  you  aren't." 

All  Pansy  wanted  now  was  to  get  to  the  one  other  man 
she  loved,  her  father.  To  get  to  him  as  quickly  as  possible 
with  her  bruised  and  wounded  heart. 

"Of  course  I'll  come  with  you,  old  girl,"  Cameron  said, 
a  trifle  helplessly.  "I  wouldn't  dream  of  leaving  you  in 
the  lurch.  But  you  have  a  way  of  springing  surprises  on 
people.  I'll  send  along  and  tell  the  captain  to  get  steam  up." 

129 


130  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAKA 

"Yes,  do,  Bob,  please,"  she  said  gratefully.  "And  ask 
Miss  Grainger  to  see  about  the  packing.  And  find  out 
where  Jenkins  is,  and  send  him  along  to  the  stables.  I — I'm 
past  doing  anything/' 

Cameron  scanned  the  girl  quickly,  suddenly  aware  that 
something  more  than  a  whim  was  at  the  bottom  of  her 
hurried  departure. 

"What  is  it,  Pansy?"  he  asked. 

"Nothing,'*  she  answered  bravely.  "But  I  get  moods 
when  I  just  feel  I  must  see  my  old  dad." 

She  turned  away  quickly  to  avoid  any  further  questions, 
leaving  Cameron  staring  at  ner  receding  back. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE  next  morning  Le  Breton  set  about  his   scheme   for 
trapping  Pansy. 

The  task  appeared  easy.  He  would  get  one  of  his  men 
to  note  when  she  left  the  hotel  and  mark  which  route 
she  took.  There  were  not  many  roads  in  the  place,  and  it 
would  not  be  difficult  to  guess  where  she  was  going.  He 
and  his  men  would  follow,  and  waylay  and  capture  her  at 
some  lonely  spot.  They  would  take  her  across  the  island 
to  a  little  port  on  the  far  side,  where  his  yacht  would  be 
waiting.  Once  he  had  her  safely  on  board,  he  would  start 
i'or  Africa. 

As  he  sat  at  breakfast,  savage  and  brooding,  craving  for 
the  girl  who  had  flouted  him,  one  of  his  servants  entered. 

'Well?"  he  asked,  glaring  at  the  man. 

The  Arab  made  a  deep  obeisance. 

"Your  Highness,  the  English  lady  has  gone." 

"Gone!"  the  Sultan  repeated  in  an  incredulous  tone. 
"Gone!  Where?" 

"She  left  the  island  last  night,  in  her  yacht,  about  two 
hours  after  she  was  here." 

Like  one  thunderstruck,  Le  Breton  stared  at  the  Arab. 
This  unexpected  move  of  Pansy's  had  upset  his  calculations 
altogether. 

Without  a  word  he  rose  from  the  table.  There  and  then 
he  went  over  to  the  hotel  to  see  the  manager,  his  only  idea 
to  find  out  where  the  girl  had  gone.  He  could  not  believe 
that  she  had  escaped  him;  yet  the  mere  thought  that  she 
might  have  done  so  filled  him  with  a  seething  passion. 

By  the  time  he  reached  the  hotel  he  had  recovered  him- 
self in  some  degree,  sufficiently  to  inquire  in  a  normal  tone 
for  the  manager. 

131 


132  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAEA 

He  was  taken  to  the  latter^s  office. 

"You  had  an  English  lady  staying  here,  a  Miss  Lang- 
ham,"  Le  Breton  said  the  moment  he  was  ushered  in.  "I 
wanted  to  see  her  rather  particularly,  but  I  hear  she  has 
left.  Can  you  tell  me  where  she's  gone?" 

On  seeing  who  the  visitor  was,  the  manager  was  anxious 
to  give  all  possible  assistance,  but  he  knew  little  more  about 
Pansy  than  Le  Breton  did. 

"She  left  rather  hurriedly,"  he  said;  "and,  as  far  as  I 
could  gather,  she  was  going  back  to  England." 

"Do  you   know   her   address   there?"   Le   Breton   asked. 

"No,  I  don't,"  the  manager  said  regretfully.  "Miss 
Langham  did  not  talk  much  about  herself." 

This  was  all  Le  Breton  was  able  to  learn.  But  he  knew 
one  thing — that  the  girl  his  fierce  heart  hungered  for  had 
escaped  him. 

That  morning  his  black  horse  had  a  hard  time,  for  Le 
Breton  rode  like  a  madman  in  a  vain  endeavour  to  get 
away  from  the  whirl  of  wild  love  and  thwarted  hopes  that 
raged  within  him — the  Sultan  Casim  Ammeh  for  the  first 
time  deprived  of  the  woman  he  wanted;  wanted  as  he  had 
never  wanted  any  other. 

He  went  to  the  rose-wreathed  summer-house  where  Pansy 
had  been  pleased  to  linger  with  him;  to  the  orange  groves 
at  Telde  where  they  had  breakfasted  together.  Night  found 
him  in  the  hotel  gardens,  near  the  fountain  where  they  had 
met  and  plighted  their  troth. 

His  hands  clenched  at  the  thought  of  all  she  had  promised 
there.  Phantom-like,  she  haunted  him.  Her  ghost  was  in 
his  arms,  kissing  and  teasing  him,  a  recollection  that  was 
torture.  The  one  real  love  of  his  life  had  proved  but  Dead 
Sea  fruit. 

He  would  have  given  his  kingdom,  all  his  riches,  to  have 
Pansy  back  in  his  arms  as  he  had  had  her  that  night,  un- 
resisting, watching  him  with  eyes  full  of  love,  wanting  him 
as  much  as  he  had  wanted  her.  The  one  woman  who  had 
ever  scorned  him! 


CHAPTEE  XX 

IN  his  study  Sir  George  Barclay  sat  alone.  Sixteen  years 
had  passed  since,  in  far-away  Gambia,  he  had  had  to 
condemn  to  death  the  marauding  Arab  chief.  In  a  few 
weeks'  time  he  would  be  returning  to  the  country,  not  in 
any  minor  capacity,  but  as  its  Governor. 

Although  his  thoughts  just  then  were  in  Gambia,  the 
incident  of  the  shooting  of  the  Sultan  Casirn  Ammeh  had 
long  since  gone  from  his  mind.  And  he  never  gave  a  thought 
nowadays  to  the  boy  who,  unavailingly,  had  come  to  the 
Arab  chief's  rescue.  But  he  still  carried  the  mark  of  the 
youngster's  sword  upon  his  cheek. 

The  passing  years  had  changed  Barclay  very  little. 
His  hair  was  grey,  his  face  thinner,  and  a  studious  look 
now  lurked  in  the  grey  eyes  where  tragedy  had  once  been. 
For,  in  his  profession,  Barclay  had  found  some  of  the  for- 
getfulness  he  had  set  out  in  search  of. 

As  he  sat  at  his  desk  the  door  opened  suddenly.  The 
manner  of  opening  told  him  that  the  daughter  he  imagined 
to  be  a  thousand  or  more  miles  away  was  home  again. 
For  no  one,  save  this  cherished  legacy  from  his  lost  love, 
would  enter  his  study  with  such  lack  of  ceremony. 

He  looked  round  quickly,  as  a  slim  girl  in  ermine  and 
purple  velvet  entered. 

"Why,  Pansy,  my  darling,  I  thougnt  you  were  in  Grand 
Canary,"  he  said,  rising  quickly  to  greet  her. 

"So  I  was,  father,  five  davs  ago.  And  then  .  .  .  and 
then !" 

She  paused,  and  laughing  in  a  rather  forced  manner, 
kissed  him  affectionately. 

"Father,  will  you  take  me  out  to  Gambia  with  you  ?"  she 
finished. 

133 


134  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAEA 

There  was  very  little  George  Barclay  ever  refused  his 
daughter.  On  this  occasion,  he  did  make  some  sort  of 
stand. 

"Gambia  is  no  place  for  you,  my  darling.  There's 
nothing  there  to  amuse  and  interest  a  young  girl." 

"Perhaps  not,"  Pansy  said  as  she  took  off  her  hat  and 
gloves,  watching  him  with  a  rather  set  smile.  "But  I 
don't  care  where  I  go  so  long  as  I  can  be  with  you  and  get 
away  from  myself." 

Her  words  made  Barclay  look  at  her  sharply. 

To  want  to  get  away  from  one's  self  was  a  feeling  he 
could  understand  and  sympathise  with,  only  too  well. 
But  to  hear  such  a  sentiment  on  his  daughter's  lips  sur- 
prised and  hurt  him. 

"My  little  girl,  what  has  happened?"  he   asked  gently. 

Pansy  laughed  again,  but  there  was  a  sharp  catch  of 
pain  in  her  mirth. 

"I  think  my  heart  is  broken,  that's  all,"  she  said  with 
a  would-be  casual  air. 

Barclay  did  not  wait  to  hear  any  more  at  that  moment. 
He  drew  her  down  on  to  a  couch  and  sat  there  with 
his  arm  about  her. 

"My  poor  little  girl,"  he  whispered.  "Tell  me  all 
about  it." 

Pansy  laid  her  head  on  his  shoulder,  and  smiled  at  him 
with  lips  that  trembled  woefully. 

"It's  nobody's  fault  but  my  own,  Daddy,"  she  said. 
"I  brought  it  on  myself  with  my  silly,  impetuous  ways. 
And  it  serves  me  right  for  hankering  after  strange  men, 
and  not  being  content  with  my  old  father." 

For  all  her  light  talk  Barclay  knew  something  serious 
had  happened.  To  him  his  daughter  was  but  a  new  edition 
of  a  well-read  book ;  the  girl  was  her  mother  over  again. 

There  was  a  brief  pause  as  Sir  George  sat  watching  his 
child,  stroking  her  curls  with  a  thin,  affectionate  hand, 
wondering  what  tragedy  had  come  into  this  bright,  young  life. 

"Hearts    are    silly    things,    aren't    they?"    Pansy    said 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAEA  135 

suddenly.  "Soft,  flabby,  squashy  sort  of  things  that  get 
hurt  easily  if  you  don't  keep  a  sharp  eye  on  them.  And 
I'd  so  many  things  to  keep  an  eye  on  that  I  forgot  all 
about  mine.  Hearts  ought  not  to  be  left  without  protec- 
tion. They  should  have  iron  rails  put  round  them  to  keep 
all  trespassers  off,  like  the  rails  we  put  round  the  trees 
in  the  park  to  keep  the  cattle  from  "hurting  them/' 

There  was  a  further  pause,  and  a  little  sniff.  Then 
Pansy  said: 

"Father,  lend  me  your  handkerchief,  I  know  it's  a  nice 
big  one.  I  believe  I'm  going  to  cry.  For  the  first  time 
since  it  happened.  It  must  be  seeing  you  again.  And  I 
shall  cry  a  lot  on  your  coat,  and  perhaps  spoil  it.  But, 
since  it's  me,  I  know  you  won't  mind." 

Sir  George  drew  out  a  handkerchief. 

"I  was  walking  along  in  heaven  with  my  Head  up  and 
my  nose  in  the  air,"  the  sweet,  hurt  voice  explained, 
"blissfully  happy  because  he  was  there.  There  was  a  hole 
in  the  floor  of  heaven  and  I  never  saw  it.  And  I  fell  right 
through,  crash,  bang,  right  down  to  earth  again.  A  rotten 
old  earth  with  all  the  fun  gone  out  of  it.  And  I'm  awfully 
sore  and  bruised,  and  the  shock  has  injured  my  heart. 
It  has  never  been  the  same  since  and  will  never  be  the  same 
again,  because  .  .  .  because,  I  did  love  him,  awfully." 

As  she  talked  Sir  George  watched  her  with  affection 
and  concern,  his  heart  aching  for  this  slim,  beautiful 
daughter  of  his,  to  whom  love  had  come  as  a  tragedy. 

"Oh,  Daddy,"  she  said,  tears  choking  her  voice,  "why 
is  life  so  hard?" 

Then  the  storm  broke. 

Sir  George  listened  to  her  sobs,  as  with  a  gentle  hand  he 
stroked  the  golden  curls.  All  the  time  he  wondered 
who  was  responsible  for  her  tears,  who  had  broken  the  heart 
of  his  cherished  daughter. 

He  went  over  the  multitude  of  men  she  knew.  But  he 
never  gave  one  thought  to  the  savage  boy  who,  sixteen 
'years  before,  had  scarred  his  face — the  Sultan  Casim  Ammeh. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

IN  a  fashionable  London  hotel  a  little  party  of  three  sat 
at  dinner.  The  dining-room  was  a  large  place,  full  of  well- 
dressed  people.  It  was  bright  with  electric  light,  and  under 
a  cover  of  greenery  a  band  played  not  too  loudly. 

Among  the  crowd  of  diners  none  seemed  better  known 
than  the  girl  with  the  short,  golden  curls  who  sat  with  the 
thin,  studious-looking  man  and  the  fresh-faced,  fair-haired 
boy.  Very  often  lorgnettes  were  turned  in  her  direction; 
for,  when  in  town,  no  girl  was  more  sought  after  than 
Pansy  Langham. 

As  Pansy  sat  with  her  father  and  Captain  Cameron  a 
man  who  had  been  sitting  at  the  far  end  of  the  room  came 
to  their  table,  greeting  all  three  with  the  air  of  an  old 
acquaintance. 

Afterwards  he  turned  to  Cameron. 

"Well,  and  how's  tennis?  Are  you  still  champion  in 
your  own  little  way?"  he  asked. 

"To  tell  you  the  truth,  Dennis,"  Cameron  answered, 
"in  Grand  Canary  one  man  gave  me  a  thorough  licking. 
And  he  was  a  rank  outsider  too !" 

"How  pleased  you  must  have  felt.  Who  was  your 
executioner  ?" 

"A  man  of  the  name  of  Le  Breton.  A  French  million- 
aire." 

Dennis  laughed  in  a  disparaging  manner. 

"French  he  calls  himself,  does  he?  That's  like  his 
cheek.  I  met  him  once  in  Paris,  a  haughty  sort  of  customer 
who  thinks  the  whole  world  is  run  for  him.  He's  a  half- 
breed  really,  for  all  his  money  and  his  high-handed  ways.'* 

The  conversation  had  taken  a  turn  that  held  a  fearsome 

136 


A  SON  OF  1HE  SAHARA  137 

interest  for  Pansy.  But  to  hear  Raoul  Le  Breton  described 
as  a  half-breed  was  a  shock  and  surprise  to  her. 

"Mr.  Le  Breton  a  half-caste !"  she  exclaimed. 

Dennis  glanced  at  her. 

"Where   did   you   drop   across  him?"   he    asked   sharply. 

"In  Grand  Canary  also." 

"Well,  the  less  you  have  to  do  with  'sich'  the  better," 
he  said  in  a  brotherly  way.  "He's  a  hot  lot.  The  very 
devil.  No  sort  of  a  pal  for  a  girl  like  you." 

"I  thought  he  was  French,"  Pansy  said  in  a  strained 
voice. 

"He  poses  as  such,  but  he  isn't.  He's  a  nigger  cross, 
French-Arab.  And  what's  more  he's  a  Mohammedan." 

"You're  a  trifle  sweeping,  Dennis,"  Sir  George  inter- 
posed. "If  you'd  dealt  with  coloured  people  as  much 
as  I  have,  you'd  know  there  was  a  great  difference  between 
a  nigger  and  an  Arab.  An  Arab  in  his  own  way  is  a  gentle- 
man. And  his  religion  has  a  great  resemblance  to  our  own. 
He  is  not  a  naked  devil-worshipper  like  the  negro." 

Pansy  welcomed  her  father's  intervention.  At  that 
moment  her  world  was  crashing  into  even  greater  ruins 
around  her. 

Eaoul  Le  Breton  a  half-caste!  The  man  she  loved 
"a  nigger" ! 

Pansy  did  not  hide  from  herself  the  fact  that  she  still 
loved  Le  Breton,  but  this  last  piece  of  news  about  him 
put  him  quite  beyond  the  pale. 

Also  it  put  a  new  light  on  the  affair  of  Lucille  Leme- 
surier. 

He  was  of  a  different  race,  a  different  religion,  a  different 
colour,  with  a  wholly  different  outlook. 

After  the  first  gust  of  temper  was  over,  Pansy  had  wanted 
to  find  some  excuse  for  Le  Breton  over  the  affair  of  the 
French  actress. 

It  is  easy  to  find  excuses  for  a  person  when  one  is  anxious 
to  find  them.  And  now  it  seemed  she  had  one. 


138  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA 

He  was  a  Mohammedan.  His  religion  allowed  him  four 
wives,  and  as  many  other  women  as  he  pleased.  No  wonder 
he  had  been  angry  at  the  fuss  she  had  made  over  Lucille 
Lemesurier!  According  to  his  code  he  had  done  no  wrong. 

Now  Pansy  wanted  to  apologise  for  her  rudeness  in 
invading  his  villa;  for  her  temper,  and  the  scene  that 
followed. 

The  fault  was  all  hers.  She  ought  to  have  found  out  more 
about  him  before  letting  things  go  so  far.  She  had  liked 
him,  and  she  had  troubled  about  nothing  else. 

She  ought  never  to  have  encouraged  him.  For  Avhen 
they  had  breakfasted  together  that  morning  among  the 
red  roses,  she  knew  he  was  in  love  with  her. 

"There  are  lots  of  things  about  myself  I  haven't  told 

you." 

Le  Breton's  remark  came  back  to  her  mind. 

No  wonder  he  had  wanted  to  marry  her  at  once !  Before 
she  found  out  anything  about  him. 

Pansy  tried  to  feel  angry  with  her  erstwhile  lover.  But, 
phantom-like,  the  strength  of  his  arms  was  around  her, 
his  handsome,  sunburnt  face  was  close  to  her  own,  his  voice 
was  whispering  words  of  love  and  longing,  his  lips  on  hers 
in  those  passionate  kisses  that  made  her  forget  everything 
"but  himself. 

Her  eyes  went  round  the  room,  a  brave,  tortured  look 
in  them. 

Were  there  other  women  there,  suffering  as  she  was  suffer- 
ing? Suffering,  and  who  yet  had  to  go  on  smiling?  The 
world  demanded  her  smiles,  and  it  should  have  them, 
although  her  heart  was  bleeding  at  the  tragedy  of  her  own 
making. 

Not  only  her  heart,  but  Raoul's.  Because  she  had  en- 
couraged him. 

She  must  not  blame  him.  For  the  odds  were  all  against 
him.  She  must  try  and  see  things  from  his  point  of  view—- 
the point  of  view  of  a  polygamist. 


A  SOX  OF  THE  SAHAKA  139 

That  night  when  Pansy  got  back  home,  she  wrote  the 
following  note: — 

"DEAB  MB.  LE  BRETON, 

I  owe  you  an  a.pology.  Only  to-night  I  have  learnt  that 
you  are  of  another  race,  another  religion  than  mine.  It  makes 
things  look  quite  different.  You  see  things  from  the  point  of 
view  of  your  race,  I,  of  mine.  I  am  sorry  I  did  not  know  ail 
this  sooner;  I  should  have  acted  very  differently.  I  should  not 
have  come  to  your  villa  that  night  and  made  a  stupid  fuss,  for 
one  thing.  About  such  matters  men  of  your  race  and  religion  are 
quite  different  from  men  of  my  own.  I  am  sorry  for  all  that 
occurred.  For  my  own  bad  temper  and  the  annoyance  I  must 
have  caused  you.  But  I  did  not  know  anything  about  you  then. 

Yours  regretfully, 

PANSY  LANGHAM. 

P.S. — I  shall  be  calling  at  Grand  Canary  in  about  ten  days' 
time  with  my  father,  Sir  George  Barclay.  I  am  going  out  to 
Africa  with  him.  If  you  care  to  come  on  board  during  the  even- 
ing I  should  like  to  see  you  and  say  how  sorry  I  am. 

P.  L." 


CHAPTEE  XXII 

ONE  day  when  Le  Breton  returned  from  one  of  the  mad 
rides  he  frequently  indulged  in,  in  a  vain  effort  to  assuage 
the  pain  and  chagrin  that  raged  within  him,  he  found  among 
a  pile  of  letters  put  aside  for  his  inspection,  one  with  an 
English  stamp. 

Letters  from  that  country  rarely  came  his  way.  But 
it  was  not  the  novelty  that  attracted  him,  making  him  pick 
it  out  from  the  others,  but  the  writing. 

He  had  seen  it  once  before,  on  a  note  that  had  turned 
his  heaven  into  hell,  when  for  the  first  time  he  had  learnt 
what  it  was  to  be  rejected  by  a  woman. 

He  tore  the  envelope  open,  eager  for  the  contents. 

What  had  the  girl  to  say  to  him?  Why  had  she 
written  ? 

With  a  wild  throb  of  hope,  he  drew  out  the  message. 

Once  he  had  called  Pansy  <a  little  creature  of  rare  sur- 
prises. But  none  equalled  the  surprise  in  store  for  him 
now. 

It  was  not  the  apologies  in  the  note  he  saw;  nor  a  girl's 
desire  to  try  and  see  things  from  his  point  of  view;  nor 
the  fact  that,  despite  everything,  she  was  unable  to  break 
away  from  him. 

He  saw  only  one  thing. 

She  was  Sir  George  Barclay's  daughter!  The  girl  he 
loved  to  distraction  was  the  child  of  his  father's  murderer! 

Astounded  he  stared  at  the  note.  He  could  not  believe 
it.  Yet  it  was  there,  written  in  Pansy's  own  hand. 

"With  my  father,  Sir  George  Barclay." 

Pansy,  the  child  of  the  man  he  hated!  That  brave, 
kind,  slim,  teasing  girl,  who  for  one  brief  week  had  filled 

140 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA  141 

him  with  a  happiness  and  love  and  contentment  such  as  he 
had  once  deemed  impossible. 

As  he  brooded  on  the  note  a  variety  of  emotions  raged 
within  him. 

A  vengeance  that  had  rankled  for  sixteen  years  fought 
with  a  love  that  had  grown  up  in  a  week. 

Then  he  pulled  himself  together,  as  if  amazed  at  his  own 
indecision. 

He  took  the  note,  with  its  pathos  and  pleading;  a  girl's 
endeavour  to  meet  the  view  of  the  man  she  loved,  whose 
outlook  was  quite  beyond  her.  Deliberately  he  tore  it 
across  and  across,  into  shreds,  slowly  and  with  a  cruel 
look  on  his  face,  as  if  it  were  something  alive  that  he  was 
torturing,  and  that  gave  him  pleasure  to  torture. 

For  Le  Breton  had  decided  what  his  course  was  to  be. 
The  vengeance  he  had  promised  long  years  ago  should  be 
carried  out,  with  slight  alterations.  He  had  a  way  now  of 
torturing  Sir  George  Barclay  that  would  be  punishment 
beyond  any  death.  And  Pansy  was  the  tool  he  intended 
to  use.  What  was  more,  she  was  to  pay  the  penalty  of  her 
father's  crime.  For  he  would  mete  out  to  her  the  measure 
he  had  promised  sixteen  years  ago. 

However,  this  decision  did  not  prevent  Le  Breton  from 
going  to  Pansy's  yacht  the  evening  of  its  arrival  in  Grand 
Canary. 

After  dinner  he  made  his  way  along  the  quay  towards 
the  white  vessel  with  its  flare  of  light  that  stood  out 
against  the  dark  night. 

Evidently  he  was  expected.  On  inquiring  for  Miss  Lang- 
ham,  he  was  shown  into  the  cabin  where  he  had  had  his 
previous  interview  with  her ;  and  with  the  feeling  that  things 
would  go  his  way,  if  he  had  but  a  little  patience:  a  virtue 
he  had  never  been  called  upon  to  exercise  where  a  woman 
was  concerned. 

Le  Breton's  feelings  as  he  stayed  on  in  the  pretty  cabin 
would  be  difficult  to  describe.  Everything  was  redolent 


142  A  SON  OP  THE  SAHAEA 

of  the  girl,  touching  his  heart  with  fairy  fingers;  a  heart 
he  had  hardened  against  her. 

But,  as  he  waited  there,  he  despised  himself  for  even 
having  momentarily  contemplated  letting  a  woman  come 
between  him  and  his  cherished  vengeance. 

Once  in  Africa  Sir  George  Barclay  would  prove  an  easy 
and  unsuspecting  prey.  According  to  custom,  the  Governor 
should  tour  his  province.  That  tour  would  bring  him 
within  six  hundred  miles  of  Le  Breton's  desert  kingdom. 
The  latter  intended  to  keep  himself  well  posted  in  his 
enemy's  movements.  And  he  knew  exactly  the  spot  where 
he  would  wait  for  the  Governor  and  his  suite — the  spot 
where  sixteen  years  before  the  Sultan  Casim  Ammeh  had 
been  shot. 

He,  Le  Breton,  would  wait  near  there  with  a  troop  of 
his  Arab  soldiers.  Unsuspecting,  the  Governor  would  walk 
into  the  trap.  The  whole  party  would  be  captured  with  a 
completeness  and  unexpectedness  that  would  leave  no 
trace  of  what  had  happened.  With  his  prisoners  he  would 
sweep  back  to  the  desert. 

Once  in  El-Ammeh,  the  daughter  should  be  sold  as  a  slave 
in  the  public  market,  to  become  the  property  of  any  Arab 
or  negro  chief  who  fancied  her.  And  her  father  should  see 
her  sold.  But  he  should  not  be  killed  afterwards.  He  should 
live  on  to  brood  over  his  child's  fate — a  torture  worse  than 
any  death. 

"Put  your  ear  quite  close.  It's  not  a  matter  that  can 
be  shouted  from  the  house-tops." 

Like  a  sign  from  the  sea,  the  echo  of  Pansy's 
voice  whispered  in  his  ear,  a  breath  from  his  one  night  in 
heaven. 

But  he  would  not  listen.  Vengeance  had  stifled  love — 
vengeance  he  had  waited  sixteen  years  for. 

He  glanced  round  with  set,  cold  face. 

It  seemed  to  him  no  other  woman  could  look  so  lovely 
and  desirable  as  the  girl  entering. 

Pansy  was  wearing  a  flounced  dress  of  some  soft  pink 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA  143 

silky  material  that  spread  around  her  like  the  petals  of  a 
flower.  The  one  great  diamond  sparkled  on  her  breast — a 
dewdrop  in  the  heart  of  a  half -blown  rose. 

On  seeing  her  Le  Breton  caught  his  breath  sharply.  This 
girl  the  daughter  of  his  father's  murderer!  This  lovely 
half-blown  English  rose !  What  a  trick  Fate  had  played 
him! 

Then,  ashamed  of  his  momentary  craving,  he  faced  her, 
a  cruel  smile  on  his  lips. 

There  was  a  brief  silence. 

Pansy  looked  at  him,  thinking  she  had  never  seen  him 
so  handsome,  so  proud,  so  aloof,  so  hard  as  now.  He  stood 
watching  her  coldly  with  no  word  of  welcome,  no  greeting 
on  his  lips. 

He  was  the  first  to  speak.  And  he  said  none  of  the  things 
Pansy  was  expecting  and  was  prepared  for. 

"Why  did  you  tell  me  your  name  was  Langham?"  he 
asked  in  a  peremptory  manner. 

"It  is  Langham,"  she  answered,  with  some  surprise. 

"How  is  it,  then,  that  you  say  Sir  George  Barclay  is 
your  father?" 

"He  is  my  father.  Langham  was  my  godfather's  name, 
my  own  second  name.  I  had  to  take  it  when  I  inherited 
his  money.  That  was  his  one  stipulation." 

Another  pause  ensued. 

There  was  a  hurt  look  in  Pansy's  soft  eyes  as  she  watched 
Le  Breton.  As  he  looked  back  at  her  a  hungry  gleam  came 
to  his  hard  ones. 

"What  have  you  learnt  about  me?"  he  demanded 
presently. 

"That  you're  half  Arab." 

He  had  almost  expected  her  to  say  she  had  discovered 
he  was  the  Sultan  Casim  Ammeh,  her  own  and  her  father's 
sworn  enemy. 

"Is  that  all?"  he  asked,  with  a  savage  laugh. 

"It's  quite  enough  to  account  for  everything,"  Pansy 
replied. 


144  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA 

"Even  for  your  coming  into  my  arms  and  letting  me  kiss 
and  caress  you,"  he  said,  with  biting  sarcasm. 

Pansy  flushed. 

"I  didn't  know  anything  about  you  then.  And  you 
know  I  didn't,"  she  said  with  indignation. 

"Or  you  wouldn't  have  listened  to  a  word  of  love  from 
me." 

Much  as  he  tried  to  hate  the  girl,  now  that  he  was  with 
her  he  could  not  keep  the  word  "love"  off  his  lips. 

Pansy  felt  she  was  not  shining.  She  wanted  to  apologise, 
but  he  seemed  determined  to  be  disagreeable.  What  was 
more,  she  had  a  feeling  she  was  dealing  with  quite  a  different 
man  from  the  Raoul  Le  Breton  who  had  won  and  broken 
her  heart  within  a  week.  She  put  it  down  to  her  own 
treatment  of  him  and  it  made  her  all  the  more  anxious 
for  an  understanding.  She  could  not  bear  to  see  him 
looking  at  her  in  that  hard,  cruel  way,  as  if  she  were  his 
mortal  enemy — someone  who  had  injured  him  past  all  for- 
giveness. 

"It's  not  that  I  want  to  talk  about  at  all,"  she  said 
desperately. 

"What  do  you  want  to  talk  about,  then?"  he  asked, 
his  cruel  smile  deepening. 

"I  want  to  say  how  sorry  I  am  that  I  was  angry  with  you 

that    night.     But    I  ...  I    didn't    know    you    were  .  .  . 
flrp " 

ell  C 

Pansy  stopped  before  she  got  deeper  into  the  mire. 

She  was  going  to  say  "a  coloured  man,"  but  with  him 
standing  before  her,  her  lips  refused  to  form  the  words. 

However,  Le  Breton  finished  the  sentence  for  her. 

"  'A  nigger/  Don't  spare  my  feelings.  I've  had  it  cast 
up  at  me  before  by  you  English." 

"You  know  I  wouldn't  say  anything  so  cruel  and  un- 
true." 

Again  there  was  silence. 

Le  Breton  watched  her,  torturing  himself  with  the  thought 
of  what  might  have  been. 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAEA  145 

"If  you'd  kept  your  word,  you'd  be  my  wife  now.  The 
wife  of  'a  nigger/  "  he  said  presently. 

"Don't  be  so  cruel.  I  never  thought  you'd  be  like  this," 
she  cried,  her  voice  full  of  pain. 

"And    I    never   thought   you   would    break    your    word." 

"In  any  case,  I  couldn't  have  married  you,  considering 
you're  a  Mohammedan,"  she  said,  goaded  out  of  all  patience 
by  his  unfriendly  attitude. 

"Eeligion  is  nothing  to  me  nowadays.  I  was  quite  pre- 
pared to  change  to  yours." 

"You  couldn't  have  done  that.  There  would  be  your 
.  .  .  your  wives  to  consider," 

"I  have  no  wife  by  my  religion  or  yours." 

"But  that  woman  at  your  villa,  wasn't  she "  Pansy 

began. 

"I've  half  a  dozen  women  in  one  of  my — houses;  but 
none  of  them  are  my  wives.  You're  the  only  woman  I've 
ever  asked  for  in  marriage.  You!" 

He  laughed  in  a  cruel,  hard  way,  as  if  at  some  devil's  joke. 

Pansy's  hand  went  to  her  head — a  weary,  hopeless  gesture. 

He  was  beyond  her  comprehension,  this  man  who  calmly 
confessed  to  having  a  half  a  dozen  women  in  one  of  his 
houses,  to  a  woman  he  would  have  made  his  wife. 

"I'm  sorry,"  she  eaid  in  a  dreary  tone,  "but  I  can't  under- 
stand you.  I'd  no  idea  there  were  men  who  seemed  just  like 
other  men  and  yet  behaved  in  this  .  .  .  this  extraordinary 
fashion." 

"I'm  not  aware  that  my  behaviour  is  extraordinary. 
Every  man  in  my  country  has  a  harem  if  he  can  afford  it." 

Deliberately  he  put  these  facts  before  the  girl  in  his  desire 
to  hurt  and  hate  her  as  he  hated  her  father.  But  the  look 
of  suffering  on  her  face  hurt  him  as  much  as  he  was  hurting 
her.  And  he  hated  himself  more  than  he  hated  her,  because 
uprooting  the  love  he  had  for  her  out  of  his  heart  was 
proving  such  a  difficult  task. 

"It's  a  harem,  is  it?"  Pansy  said  distastefully.  "N"ow  I'm 
beginning  to  understand.  But  I  don't  want  to  hear  any- 


146  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA 

thing  more  about  it.  I  see  now  it  was  a  mistake  my  asking 
you  here.  But  I  wanted  you  to  know — to  know " 

She  floundered  and  stopped  and  started  again,  anxious  to 
be  fair  with  him  in  spite  of  everything. 

"I  wanted  you  to  understand  that  the  fact  of  your  religion 
and  race  made  your  behaviour  seem  quite  different  from 
what  it  would  have  been  were  you  a  ...  a  European.  I 
want  you  to  see  that  I  know  you  have  your  point  of  view, 
that  I  can't  in  all  fairness  blame  you  for  doing  what  is  not 
wrong  according  to  your  standpoint,  even  if  it  is  according 
to  mine." 

With  his  cold,  cruel  smile  deepening,  he  watched  her 
floundering  after  excuses  for  him,  endeavouring  to  see  his 
point  of  view,  to  be  just  and  fair. 

"You're  very  magnanimous,"  he  said,  with  biting 
scorn. 

"And  you  are  very  unkind,"  she  flashed,  suddenly  out  of 
patience.  "You're  making  everything  as  hard  for  me  as  you 
possibly  can.  You're  doing  it  deliberately ;  and  you  look  as 
if  you  enjoyed  hurting  me.  I  never  thought  you'd  be  like 
this,  Eaoul.  I  would  have  liked  to  part  as  friends  since 
.  .  .  since  anything  else  is  impossible." 

His  name  on  her  lips  made  a  spasm  cross  Le  Breton's  face. 

As  he  stood  there  fighting  against  himself  he  knew  he 
was  still  madly  in  love  with  the  girl  he  was  determined  to 
hate,  and  he  despised  himself  for  his  own  weakness. 

Pansy  watched  him,  a  look  of  suppressed  suffering  shadow- 
ing her  eyes. 

She  would  have  given  all  she  possessed — her  cherished 
freedom,  her  vast  riches,  her  life — to  have  had  him  as  she 
once  thought  him,  a  man  of  her  own  colour,  not  with  this 
dreadful  black  barrier  between  them;  a  tragedy  so  ghastly 
that  the  fact  of  Lucille  Lemesurier  now  seemed  a  laughing 
matter.  He  was  lost  to  her  for  ever.  No  amount  of  love 
or  understanding  could  pull  down  that  barrier. 

"Good-bye,"  she  said,  holding  out  her  hand.  "I'm  sorry 
we  ever  dropped  across  one  another." 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAEA  147 

Le  Breton  made  no  reply.  Cold  and  unsmiling,  he 
watched  her. 

There  was  a  brief  silence. 

Outside,  the  sea  sobbed  and  splashed  like  tears  against 
the  vessel's  side.  But  all  the  tears  in  the  world  could  not 
wash  the  black  stain  from  him. 

As  they  stood  looking  at  one  another,  a  verse  came  and 
sang  like  a  dirge  in  Pansy's  head : 

What  are  we  waiting  for?     Oh,  my  heart, 
Kisa  me  straight  on  the  brow  and  part: 
Again!     Again,  my  heart,  my  heart 
What  are  we  waiting  for,  you  and  I? 
A  pleading  look — a   stifled   cry — 
Good-bye   for  ever.     Good-bye,  good-bye. 

"Good-bye,"  she  said  again. 

Then  he  smiled  his  cold,  cruel  smile. 

"No,  Pansy.     I  say — au  revoir." 

Ignoring  her  outstretched  hand,  he  bowed.  Then,  after 
one  long  look  at  her,  he  turned  and  was  gone. 

As  the  door  closed  behind  him  Pansy  blinked  bacV  two 
tears. 

It  had  hurt  her  horribly  to  see  him  so  set  and  cold,  with 
that  cruel  look  in  his  eyes  where  love  once  had  been. 

She  wished  that  "The  Sultan"  had  killed  her  that  day  in 
the  East  End  of  London ;  or  that  Raoul  Le  Breton  had  been 
drowned  that  night  in  the  sea.  Anything  rather  than  that 
they  should  have  met  to  make  each  other  suffer. 


PART  III 


CHAPTER  I 

OVER  El-Ammeh  great  stars  flashed,  like  silver  lamps  in 
the  purple  dome  above  the  desert  city.  Their  light  gave  a 
faint,  misty  white  tinge  to  the  scented  blueness  of  the  harem 
garden.  There,  trees  sighed  softly,  moving  vague  and 
shadow-like  as  a  warm  breeze  stirred  them.  The  walled 
pleasance  was  filled  with  the  scent  of  flowers,  of  roses,  mag- 
nolia, heliotrope,  mimosa  and  a  hundred  other  blossoms,  for 
night  lay  heavy  upon  the  garden. 

In  sunken  ponds  the  stars  were  mirrored,  rocking  gently 
on  the  surface  of  the  ruffled  water.  Close  by  one  of  the 
silvered  pools,  a  man's  figure  showed,  big  and  white,  in  flow- 
ing garments.  Against  him  a  slender  girl  leant. 

Rayma's  eyes  rivalled  the  stars  as  she  gazed  up  at  her 
sultan  and  owner.  Yet  in  their  dark  depths  a  touch  of 
anxiety  lurked. 

A  fortnight  ago,  the  Sultan  had  returned  to  El-Ammeh. 
The  first  week  had  been  one  of  blissful  happiness  for  the 
Arab  girl.  For  her  master  had  returned  more  her  lover  than 
ever.  But,  as  the  days  went  on,  doubts  crept  into  her  heart, 
vague  and  haunting.  At  times  it  seemed  to  her  he  was  not 
quite  the  same  man  who  left  her  for  Paris.  For  he  had  a 
habit  now  that  he  had  not  had  before  he  went  away — a  dis- 
concerting habit  of  looking  at  her  with  unseeing  eyes,  as  if 
his  thoughts  were  elsewhere. 

This  mood  was  on  him  now. 

Although  the  night  called  for  nothing  but  love  and  caresses, 
none  had  fallen  to  her  lot.  Although  she  rested  against 
him,  she  might  not  have  been  there  for  all  the  notice  he  took. 
He  appeared  to  have  forgotten  her,  as  he  gazed  in  a  brood- 
ing, longing  manner  at  the  soft,  velvety  depths  of  the  purple 
sky — sky  as  deeply,  softly  purple  as  pansies. 
•  "  151 


152  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA 

Eayma  pressed  closer  to  her  lord  and  sultan,  looking  at 
him  with  love-laden,  anxious  eyes. 

"Beloved,"  she  whispered  softly,  "are  your  thoughts  with 
some  woman  in  Paris?" 

With  a  start,  his  attention  came  back  to  her.  In  the  star- 
light he  scanned  her  little  face  in  a  fierce,  hungry,  disap- 
pointed manner.  For  the  slight  golden  girl  who  now  rested 
upon  his  heart  brought  him  none  of  the  contentment  he 
had  known  when  Pansy  had  been  there. 

"No,  little  one,"  he  said  gently.  "I  prefer  you  to  all 
the  women  I  met  in  Paris." 

Her  slim  arms  went  round  his  neck  in  a  clinging  pas- 
sionate embrace. 

"Oh,  my  lord,"  she  whispered,  "such  words  are  my 
life.  At  times  I  think  you  do  not  love  me  as  you  once  did. 
You  seem  not  quite  the  same.  For,  often,  although  your 
arms  are  around  me,  you  forget  that  I  am  there !" 

A  bitter  expression  crossed  his  face. 

He  did  not  forget  that  she  was  there.  Although  he  had 
come  back  to  the  desert  girl  he  had  once  loved,  it  was  not 
her  he  wanted,  but  the  girl  who  had  scorned  and  flouted 
him,  his  enemy's  daughter.  And  he  tried  to  forget  her 
in  the  slim,  golden  arms  that  held  him,  with  such  desire 
and  passion. 

"No,  Eayma,  I'm  not  quite  the  same,"  he  said,  stroking 
the  little  face  that  watched  him  with  such  love  and  longing. 
"For  sixteen  years  and  more  I  have  waited  to  avenge  my 
father's  death.  And  now " 

He  broke  off,  and  laughed  savagely. 

"And  now — my  father's  murderer  is  almost  within 
my  grip.  Next  week  I  start  out  with  my  men  to  capture 
him." 

Revenge  was  a  sentiment  the  Arab  girl  could  understand. 

"Oh,  my  lord,"  she  whispered,  "little  wonder  that  your 
mind  wanders  from  me,  even  though  I  am  within  your 
arms.  I  wept  when  you  went  to  Paris.  But  I  would  speed 
you  on  this  quest  for  vengeance." 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAEA  153 

The  Sultan  made  no  reply. 

Deep  down  in  his  own  heart  he  knew  his  excuse  was  a 
false  one.  It  was  not  vengeance  that  came  between  him 
and  Rayma — but  Pansy. 

And  now  he  hated  the  English  girl,  for  she  had  robbed 
all  other  women  of  their  sweetness. 


CHAPTER  II 

OVEE  the  old  fort  near  the  river  the  British  flag  drooped 
limply.  Many  years  had  passed  since  it  had  last  hung 
there.  Nowadays,  the  place  was  not  used.  The  country 
was  too  peaceful  to  need  forts,  and  the  district  officer  lived 
in  a  corrugated  iron  bungalow  just  beyond  the  remains 
of  the  stockade. 

It  was  getting  on  towards  evening.  The  mist  still  rose 
from  forest  and  shadow  valley,  as  it  had  risen  sixteen  years 
before  when  Barclay  first  came  to  these  parts.  And  in  the 
stunted  cliffs  another  generation  of  baboons  swarmed. 

On  the  roof  of  the  old  fort  Pansy  stood  with  her  father, 
watching  as  she  had  often  watched  during  her  months  in 
Africa,  the  sunset  that  each  night  painted  the  world  with 
glory. 

A  golden  mist  draped  the  horizon,  its  edge  gilded  sharply 
and  clearly.  Across  the  golden  curtain  swept  great  fan- 
like  rays  of  rose  and  green  and  glowing  carmine,  all  radiating 
from  a  blurred  mass  of  orange  hung  on  the  world's  edge 
where  the  sun  sank  slowly  behind  the  veil  of  gold. 

The  mist  rolled  up  from  the  wide  shallow  valley,  in 
banks  and  tattered  ribbons,  rainbow  tinted.  And  the  lakes 
that,  in  the  dry  season,  marked  the  course  of  the  shrunken 
river,  gleamed  like  jewels  in  the  flood  of  light  poured  out 
from  the  heavens. 

The  constant  change  and  variety  of  the  last  few  months 
had  eased  Pansy's  pain  a  little. 

With  her  father  she  had  toured  the  colony.  She  had 
elept  under  canvas,  in  native  huts,  and  iron  bungalows. 
And  there  were  half-a-dozen  officers  on  the  governor's 
staff,  all  anxious  to  entertain  his  daughter. 

154 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAEA  155 

But  for  the  nights,  Pansy  would  have  enjoyed  herself 
immensely. 

"Give  me  the  nights,  Pansy,  and  the  days  I'll  leave  to 
you." 

Very  often  Eaoul  Le  Breton's  words  came  back  to  her, 
as  she  lay  sleepless.  It  seemed  that  he  had  her  nights  now, 
that  man  she  loved  yet  could  not  marry.  Often  her  heart 
ached  with  a  violence  that  kept  her  awake  until  the 
morning. 

Pansy  tried  to  make  her  nights  as  short  as  possible. 
She  was  always  the  last  to  bed  and  the  first  to  rise,  often 
up  and  dressed  before  AJice — her  plump,  pretty,  mulatto 
maid,  a  Mission  girl  Pansy  had  engaged  for  her  stay  in 
Africa — appeared  with  the  early  morning  tea.  And  when- 
ever it  was  possible,  she  was  out  and  away  on  her  old 
racehorse,  with  some  member  of  her  father's  staff. 

And  the  day  that  followed  was  generally  full  of  novelty 
and  interest.  There  were  new  people  to  see;  a  wild 
country  to  travel  through;  some  negro  chief  to  interview; 
a  native  village  to  visit. 

As  the  journey  continued,  the  Europeans-  grew  fewer. 
Until  that  day,  it  was  nearly  a  week  since  Pansy  had  seen 
a  white  face,  except  those  of  her  father's  suite. 

Only  that  afternoon  the  furthermost  point  of  the  tour 
had  been  reached.  A  mile  or  so  beyond  was  French  terri- 
tory. 

With  her  father  Pansy  often  went  over  the  maps  of  the 
district  and  the  country  that  lay  around  it.  She  knew  that 
beyond  the  British  possessions  lay  a  sparsely  populated  and 
but  little  known  district;  vast  areas,  scarcely  explored,  of 
scrub  and  poor  grass,  that  led  on  to  the  Back  of  Beyond,  the 
limitless  expanse  of  the  burning  Sahara. 

But,  interested  as  Pansy  always  was  in  all  connected 
with  her  father's  province,  and  all  that  lay  about  it,  she 
was  not  thinking  of  any  of  these  things  as  she  stood  on  the 
roof  with  him,  but  of  her  old  playmate,  Captain  Cameron. 

The    Governor,   his   staff,    and   the   district   officer   were 


156  A  SON  OP  THE  SAHAEA 

going  the  next  day  to  visit  some  rather  important  negro 
chief.  Pansy  was  to  have  been  one  of  the  party,  but  on 
reaching  their  journey's  end,  Cameron  had  suddenly 
developed  a  bad  attack  of  malaria. 

"I  don't  think  I'll  go  to-morrow,  father,"  she  was  saying. 
"I  don't  like  leaving  Bob.  I  know  his  orderly  can  look 
after  him  all  right.  But  he  says  he  feels  better  when  I'm 
about,  so  I  promised  to  stay  and  hold  his  hand." 

"Just  as  you  like,"  Sir  George  answered.  "In  any  case 
the  pow-pow  will  be  very  similar  to  a  dozen  others  you've 
seen.  And  Bob  needs  keeping  cheerful." 

"He  takes  it  very  philosophically,"  Pansy  answered. 

"It's  the  only  way  to  take  life,"  her  father  answered, 
a  trifle  sadly. 

Pansy  rubbed  a  soft  cheek  against  his  in  silent  sympathy. 

She  loved  and  understood  her  quiet,  indulgent  father 
more  than  ever.  But  the  dead  girl  he  still  grieved  for  was 
only  a  misty  memory  to  his  child. 

"Yes,  Daddy,  I've  learnt  that  too,"  she  eaid.  "It's 
no  use  grousing  about  things.  It's  far  better  to  laugh  in 
the  teeth  of  Fate." 

George  Barclay's  arm  went  round  his  daughter. 

She  had  followed  out  her  own  precepts,  this  brave, 
bright  girl  of  his. 

As  she  went  about  his  camp,  no  one  would  have  guessed 
her  life  was  a  tragedy.  And  even  he  knew  no  more  than 
she  had  told  him  on  her  unexpected  return  from  Grand 
Canary. 

She  was  fighting  her  battle  alone,  as  he  in  past  years 
had  fought  his,  in  her  own  unselfish  way,  refusing  to  let 
her  shadows  fall  on  those  about  her. 


CHAPTER  III 

ABOUT  five  miles  away  from  the  old  fort,  deep  in  the  forest, 
there  was  a  large  grassy  glade,  an  unfrequented  spot. 

Within  it  now  were  encamped  what  looked  to  be  a  large 
party  of  Arab  merchants.  There  were  about  a  hundred 
of  them,  and  they  had  come  early  that  morning,  with  horses, 
and  camels,  and  mules,  and  bales  of  merchandise.  And 
they  outnumbered  Barclay's  party  by  nearly  three  to  one. 
His  following  were  not  more  than  forty,  including  thirty 
Hausa  soldiers. 

Immediately  on  arriving  in  the  glade,  two  of  the  Arabs, 
with  curios.,  had  been  dispatched  to  the  English  camp, 
outwardly  to  sell  their  goods,  but,  in  reality,  as  spies. 

They  had  hardly  gone,  before  the  rest  of  the  party  put 
aside  its  peaceful  air.  Out  of  their  bales  weapons  were 
produced;  guns  of  the  latest  pattern  and  vicious-looking 
knives. 

In  his  tent  the  Sultan  Casim  Ammeh  sat,  in  white 
burnoose,  awaiting  the  return  of  his  spies.  With  him  was 
Edouard,  his  French  doctor,  who  was  watching  his  royal 
master  with  an  air  of  concern. 

"I  shall  be  glad  when  this  thing  is  through  and  done 
with,"  he  remarked  presently,  his  voice  heavy  with  anxiety. 
"And  all  I  hope  is  that  the  English  don't  get  hold  of  you. 
There'll  be  short  shrift  for  you,  if  you're  caught  meddling 
with  their  officials." 

"They'd  shoot  me,  as  Barclay  shot  my  father,"  the 
Sultan  replied  grimly.  "But  I'm  willing  to  risk  that  in 
order  to  get  hold  of  him." 

"I  wish  we  were  safely  back  in  El-Ammeh,"  the  doctor 
said. 

"You've  never  experienced  either  a  deep  love  or  a  deep 

157 


158  A  SON  OP  THE  SAHAEA 

hate,  Edouard.  The  surface  of  things  has  always  satisfied 
you.  You're  to  be  envied." 

"Well  I  hope  that  love  will  never  run  you  into  the  dangers 
that  this  revenge  of  yours  is  likely  to,"  Edouard  replied, 
getting  up. 

He  went  from  the  tent,  leaving  the  Sultan  alone,  awaiting 
the  return  of  his  spies. 

It  was  nearly  midday  when  they  got  hack  to  the  glade. 
At  once  they  were  taken  into  the  royal  presence. 

"What  have  you  learnt?"  the  Sultan  demanded. 

The  Arabs  bowed  low  before  their  ruler. 

"Your  Highness,  the  English  party  has  broken  up," 
one  replied.  "The  chief  and  his  officers,  with  half  the 
soldiers,  have  gone  to  a  village  that  lies  about  half  way 
between  here  and  the  fort.  And  the  white  lady,  his 
daughter,  is  left  behind,  with  but  fifteen  men  to  guard 
her." 

As  Le  Breton  listened,  the  task  he  had  Bet  himself 
appeared  even  easier  than  he  had  imagined. 

At  the  head  of  his  men  he  would  waylay  and  capture 
the  governor  and  his  party  on  their  return  from  the  village. 
When  this  was  accomplished  he  would  send  off  a  contingent 
to  seize  Pansy. 

With  this  idea  in  view,  he  summoned  a  couple  of  native 
officers  into  his  presence. 

When  they  appeared,  he  gave  them  various  instructions 
about  the  matter  on  hand,  and,  finally,  his  plans  concerning 
Pansy. 

"No  shot  must  be  fired  in  the  presence  of  the  English 
lady,"  he  finished.  "At  all  costs  she  must  be  captured 
without  injury." 

With  deference  the  Arab  officers  listened  to  his  instruc- 
tions, then  they  bowed  and  left  the  royal  presence. 

Not  long  afterwardsi  the  glade  was  practically  empty 
save  for  the  tents  and  camels  and  mules. 

At  the  head  of  his  men  the  Sultan  Casim  Ammeh  had  gone 
in  quest  of  the  vengeance  he  had  waited  quite  sixteen 
years  for. 


CHAPTER  IV 

IN  the  guard-house  of  the  old  fort  where  George  Barclay 
had  once  housed  his  wounded  Arab  prisoners,  Captain 
Cameron  sat  propped  up  with  pillows  in  a  camp  bed.  It 
was  a  cool,  dim,  white-washed  room  with  thick  stone  walls, 
tiny  windows  high  up  near  the  ceiling,  and  a  strong  wooden 
door,  that  was  barred  from  the  inside. 

Beside  him  Pansy  sat,  pouring  out  the  tea  that  his  orderly 
had  just  brought  in,  and  trying  to  coax  an  appetite  that 
malaria  had  left  capricious. 

Cameron's  fever  had  burnt  itself  out  in  twenty-four 
hours  as  such  fevers  will,  but  it  had  left  the  young  man 
very  weak  and  washed  out,  scarcely  able  to  stand  on  his 
legs. 

As  Pansy  sat  talking  and  coaxing,  trying  to  make  a  sick 
man  forget  his  sickness,  into  the  stillness  of  the  drowsy 
afternoon  there  came  a  sound  that  neither  of  them  expected. 
The  thunder  of  horses'  hoofs,  like  a  regiment  sweeping 
towards  them. 

As  far  as  Cameron  knew  there  were  no  horses  in  the 
district  except  their  own,  and  they  numbered  only  about 
half  a  dozen,  not  enough  to  produce  anything  like  that 
amount  of  sound. 

"What  on  earth  can  that  be?"  he  asked,  suddenly  alert. 

Almost  as  he  spoke  there  was  a  further  sound.  A  sound 
of  firing.  Not  a  single  shot,  but  a  volley.  It  was  followed 
immediately  by  cries  and  screams,  and  a  hubbub  of  native 
voices. 

Cameron  had  seen  active  service.  That  sound  made  him 
forget  all  about  his  fever.  He  knew  it  for  a  surprise  attack. 
But  who  had  attacked  them,  and  why,  he  could  not  imagine; 
for  the  district  was  peaceful. 

159 


160  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA 

Barefooted  and  in  pyjamas,  he  scrambled  out  of  bed. 
Swaying,  he  fumbled  under  his  pillow,  and  producing  a 
revolver,  slipped  it  into  his  pocket.  Then  he  staggered 
across  to  the  door,  Pansy  at  his  heels. 

When  they  looked  out,  it  appeared  that  the  stockade  was 
filled  with  white-robed  figures  on  horseback,  lean,  brown, 
hawk-faced  men  whom  Pansy  immediately  recognised  for 
Arabs.  The  surprised  Hausa  soldiers  had  been  driven  into 
one  corner  of  the  compound,  and  back  to  back  were  fighting 
valiantly  against  overwhelming  odds. 

Cameron  did  not  wait  to  see  any  more.  Already  a  score  or 
more  of  the  wild  horsemen  were  sweeping  on  towards  the 
old  fort  where  the  two  stood. 

Quick  as  thought  he  shut  the  guardroom,  door.  With 
hands  that  shook  with  fever,  he  stooped  and  picked  up  one 
of  the  two  iron  bars  that  held  it  in  position. 

"Lend  me  a  hand,  Pansy,"  he  said  sharply. 

But  Pansy  did  not  need  any  telling.  Already  she  had 
seized  the  other  end  of  the  heavy  bar.  It  was  in  position 
just  as  the  horde  outside  reached  the  guard-house.  There 
was  a  rattle  of  arms,  the  sound  of  horses  being  brought 
sharply  to  a  halt.  Then  orders  shouted  in  a  wild,  barbaric 
language. 

There  followed  a  shower  of  heavy  blows  upon  the  door. 

When  the  second  iron  bar  was  in  position,  the  boy  and 
the  girl  stood  for  a  moment  and  looked  at  one  another. 

Pansy  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"What  has  happened  ?"  she  asked. 

"It  looks  like  a  desert  tribe  out  on  some  marauding  ex- 
pedition," he  replied  in  as  cool  a  voice  as  he  could  muster. 
"But  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  what  they're  doing  down  as 
far  as  here." 

"My  father?"  Pansy  said  quickly. 

Cameron  made  no  reply.  He  hoped  the  Governor's  party 
had  not  fallen  foul  of  the  marauders.  But  the  fate  of  Sir 
George  and  his  staff  was  not  the  one  that  troubled  him 
QOW.  All  his  thoughts  were  for  the  girl  he  loved,  to  keep 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAEA  161 

her  from  falling  into  the  hands  of  that  barbaric  horde. 
And  fall  she  must,  dead  or  alive,  before  8O  very  long. 
Strong  as  the  door  was,  it  would  not  be  able  to  withstand 
the  assaults  the  Arabs  could  put  upon  it. 

With  a  casual  air  Cameron  examined  his  revolver,  to  make 
sure  that  the  five  cartridges  were  complete. 

Then  he  glanced  at  the  girl. 

She  caught  his  eye,  and  smiled  bravely.  She  had  grasped 
the  situation  also. 

"We  all  have  to  die  sooner  or  later,"  she  remarked.  "I 
hope  it'll  be  sooner  in  my  case." 

Cameron's  young  face  grew  even  whiter  and  more  drawn; 
this  time  with  something  more  than  fever — the  thought  of 
the  task  before  him. 

"Four  shots  for  them,  Pansy,  and  the  fifth  for  you,"  he 
answered  hoarsely. 

"Yes,  Bob,  whatever  you  do,  don't  forget  the  fifth." 

As  they  talked,  thundering  blows  were  falling  on  the  door, 
filling  the  room  with  constantly  recurring  echoes.  But  the 
wood  and  iron  withstood  the  assault.  The  noise  stopped 
suddenly.  From  outside,  voices  could  be  heard,  evidently 
discussing  what  had  better  be  done  next. 

Pansy  and  Cameron  crossed  to  the  far  side  of  the  room, 
and  stood  there  side  by  side,  their  backs  against  the  wall, 
waiting. 

When  the  blows  came  again  they  were  different;  one 
heavy,  ponderous  thud  that  made  the  door  creak  and  groan, 
with  a  pause  between  each  blow. 

"They've  got  a  battering-ram  to  work  now,  a  tree  trunk 
or  something,"  Cameron  remarked.  "That  good  old  door 
won't  be  able  to  stand  the  strain  much  longer." 

Then  he  glanced  at  the  girl,  longing  in  his  eyes. 

"Let  me  give  you  one  kiss,  Pansy.  A  good-bye  kiss," 
he  whispered.  "It's  years  since  I've  kissed  you.  You're 
euch  a  one  for  keeping  a  fellow  at  arm's  length  nowadays." 

With  death  knocking  at  the  door  Pansy  could  not  refuse 
him;  this  nice  boy  she  had  always  liked,  yet  never  loved. 


162  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA 

She  thought  of  the  man  who  had  feasted  so  freely  on  her 
lips  that  night  in  the  moonlit  garden  in  Grand  Canary.  She 
wanted  no  man's  kisses  but  his,  no  man's  love  hut  his,  and 
his  race  and  colour  barred  him  out  from  her  for  ever. 

"Kiss  me  if  you  like,  Bob,  for  old  time's  sake.     But " 

She  broke  off,  listening  to  the  noises  from  outside,  the 
heavy,  regular  thud  on  the  iron-bound  door,  that  had  now 
set  the  stone  walls  trembling. 

"Now,  I  shall  die  a  young  maid  instead  of  an  old  one, 
that's  all,"  she  said  suddenly. 

Cameron  watched  her,  pain  on  his  face;  this  girl  who 
could  face  death  with  a  courage  that  equalled  his  own. 

Then  he  kissed  her  tenderly. 

"Good-bye,  Pansy,  little  pal,"  he  said  hoarsely. 

Afterwards  there  was  silence  in  the  room.  Between  the 
heavy  blows  flies  droned.  Droned  as  if  all  were  well  with 
the  world.  As  if  nothing  untoward  were  happening. 

Pansy  listened  to  them,  a  strained  look  on  her  face. 

So  they  would  go  on  droning  after  she  was  dead. 

How  painful  the  thought  would  once  have  been.  But 
the  world  had  grown  so  tragic  since  she  had  met  and  parted 
with  Raoul  Le  Breton.  Life  had  become  so  dreary.  There 
was  a  constant  gnawing  pain  at  her  heart  now,  a  pain  that 
Pansy  hoped  would  not  follow  her  from  this  world  into 
another. 

There  was  a  crash  of  falling  timber. 

The  door  gave  way  suddenly,  letting  in  a  flood  of  wild, 
white-clad  men. 

If  Cameron  thought  of  anything  beyond  getting  his  four 
shots  home  among  the  swarming  crowd,  it  was  to  wonder 
why  they  did  not  fire,  instead  of  rushing  towards  him  and 
the  girl. 

But  he  did  not  give  much  time  to  the  problem. 

Within  four  seconds,  four  shots  had  been  fired  at  the  on- 
rushing  Arabs.  And  with  ruthless  joy  Cameron  noted  that 
four  of  them  fell. 

Then  he  turned  his  weapon  on  the  girl  beside  him.     Now 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAEA  163 

that  her  turn  had  come,  Pansy  smiled  at  him  bravely  with 
white  lips. 

But,  as  Cameron  turned,  a  shot  grazed  his  hand,  fired  by 
the  leader  of  the  Arabs,  who  appeared  to  have  grasped  what 
the  Englishman  was  about  to  do. 

The  bullet  did  not  reach  Pansy's  brain  as  Cameron  in- 
tended. For  the  pain  of  his  wound  sent  his  hand  slightly 
downwards  just  as  he  pulled  the  trigger. 

His  bullet  found  a  resting-place  in  her  heart,  it  seemed. 
With  a  faint  gasp  she  fell  as  if  dead  at  his  feet,  a  red  stain 
on  the  front  of  her  white  dress. 

This  contretemps  left  the  onrushing  horde  aghast.  They 
halted  abruptly.  In  silence  they  stood  staring  at  the  limp 
form  of  the  prostrate  girl,  the  fear  of  death  upon  their 
swarthy  faces. 


CHAPTER  Y 

IN  his  tent  the  Sultan  Casim  Ammeh  was  waiting  for  the 
return  of  the  party  sent  on  to  the  old  fort  to  capture  Pansy. 

So  far  there  had  been  no  hitch  in  his  schemes.  Sir  George 
and  his  staff  had  proved  an  easy  prey.  Already  one  portion 
of  his  Arab  following,  with  Barclay's  officers,  had  set  out 
on  the  long  journey  back  to  El- Ammeh. 

Sir  George  and  Pansy,  the  Sultan  had  arranged  to  take 
up  himself,  as  soon  as  the  girl  was  in  his  hands.  For  he 
had  no  desire  to  linger  in  British  territory. 

But  it  was  not  the  punishment  England  would  dole  out 
to  him  if  he  were  caught  that  filled  Le  Breton's  mind  as 
he  sat  cross-legged  among  the  cushions,  with  the  cruel  lines 
about  his  mouth  very  much  in  evidence.  His  thoughts 
were  all  with  Sir  George  Barclay's  daughter. 

What  desert  harem  would  be  her  future  home?  What 
wild  chief  would  call  that  golden-haired  girl  his  chattel? 

Casim  Ammeh  had  determined  to  carry  out  his  vengeance 
to  the  letter,  where  Pansy  was  concerned.  To  sell  her  in 
the  slave-market  of  his  capital;  and  keep  her  father  alive, 
tortured  by  the  knowledge  of  his  daughter's  fate. 

What  would  the  girl  say  when  she  saw  him?  When  she 
recognised  him  for  the  Sultan  of  El-Ammeh,  the  man  her 
father  had  wronged  past  all  forgiveness.  Would  that  sweet, 
brave  face  go  white  at  the  knowledge  of  the  fate  before  her? 
Would  she  try  to  plead  with  him  or  herself  and  her  father? 
Would ! 

Le  Breton  pulled  his  straying  thoughts  up  sharply,  lest 
they  should  go  wandering  down  forbidden  ways — ways  that 
led  to  where  love  was. 

He  had  determined  to  hate  Pansy;  a  hatred  he  had  to 
keep  continually  before  him,  lest  he  should  forget  it. 

164 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA  165 

The  afternoon  wore  on,  bringing  long  shadows  creeping 
into  the  glade.  And  the  Sultan  sat  waiting  for  the  full  fruit 
of  his  vengeance.  There  might  be  peace  in  his  heart  once 
the  wrong  done  to  his  father  was  righted.  Peace  in  the 
restless  heart  that  throbbed  within  him,  that  seemed  always 
searching  for  a  life  other  than  the  one  he  lived;  a  peace  he 
had  known  just  once  or  twice  when  a  girl's  slight  form  had 
rested  upon  it.  His  enemy's  daughter ! 

The  sound  of  approaching  hoofs  broke  into  his  thoughts. 
He  knew  what  they  were.  Those  of  the  party  sent  on  to 
capture  Pansy. 

When  the  cavalcade  halted,  his  eyes  went  to  the  open  flap 
of  the  big  tent,  a  savage  expression  in  them.  He  could  not 
see  the  returned  party  from  there;  only  the  guards  posted 
outside  of  the  royal  quarters. 

Presently  a  couple  of  men  in  flowing  white  robes  came 
into  view;  the  two  officers  who  had  headed  the  expedition. 
They  were  challenged  by  the  sentries,  then  they  passed  on 
towards  the  tent  where  their  Sultan  was  waiting. 

There  was  concern  upon  their  faces,  that  deepened  to 
resignation  and  despair  when  the  royal  gaze  rested  upon 
them. 

"Where  is  the  English  lady?"  their  Sultan  demanded 
coldly. 

''Your  Highness,  there  was  a  man  of  her  colour  with 
her,  and "  one  of  the  officers  began. 

Le  Breton  made  an  impatient  gesture. 

"Bring  me  the  girl."  he  commanded. 

The  officers  glanced  at  one  another.  Then  one  knelt  be- 
fore the  Sultan. 

"The  instructions  were  carried  out/'  he  said.  "But  the 
English  lady  is  dead." 

There  was  a  moment  of  tense  silence.  A  feeling  of  some- 
one fighting  against  an  incredible  truth. 

Pansy  dead!     Impossible! 

The  Sultan  sat  as  if  turned  into  stone.  The  contretemps, 
was  one  he  had  never  anticipated. 


166  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA 

"Dead,"  the  echoes  whispered  at  him  mockingly  through 
the  silk-draped  tent.  "Dead/'  they  sighed  unto  themselves 
as  if  in  dire  pain. 

And  that  one  tragic  word  stripped  love  of  its  garment  of 
hate,  and  set  it  before  him,  alive  and  vital. 

The  tent  suddenly  became  charged  with  suffering,  and 
the  feeling  of  a  fierce,  proud  heart  breaking. 

"Dead!"  the  Sultan  repeated  in  a  hoarse,  incredulous 
voice.  "Then  Allah  have  pity  on  the  man  who  killed  her, 
for  I  shall  have  none." 

"Your  Highness,  there  was  a  white  man  with  her.  He 
shot  her,"  the  kneeling  officer  explained. 

Le  Breton  hardly  heard  him.  For  the  first  time  in  his 
wild,  arrogant  life  he  felt  regret;  regret  for  a  deed  of  his 
own  doing.  The  regret  that  is  the  forerunner  of  conscience, 
as  conscience  precedes  the  birth  of  a  soul — the  soul  he  had 
once  laughingly  accused  Pansy  of  trying  to  save. 

His  schemes  had  brought  her  to  her  death.  Morally  his 
was  the  hand  that  had  killed  her.  His  hand! 

The  thought  staggered  him. 

He  got  to  his  feet  suddenly,  reeling  slightly,  as  if  in  dire 
agony.  The  officer  kneeling  before  him  bowed  his  head 
submissively.  He  expected  the  fate  of  all  who  bring  bad 
news  to  a  Sultan — the  Sultan's  sword  upon  his  neck. 

But  Le  Breton  hardly  noticed  the  man.  He  only  saw 
his  own  deed  before  him.  Love  had  leapt  out  of  its  scabbard 
of  hate.  The  one  fact  he  had  tried  to  keep  hidden  from 
himself  was  shouting,  loud-voiced,  at  him. 

In  spite  of  who  and  what  Pansy  was,  he  still  loved  her, 
madly,  ragingly,  hopelessly.  But  it  had  taken  her  death  lo 
bring  the  truth  home  to  him. 

"Where  is  the  girl  ?"  he  asked,  in  a  stiff,  harsh  voice. 

"We  brought  her  so  that  your  Highness  could  see  we 
spoke  the  truth,"  the  officer  replied. 

"Let  her  be  brought  in  to  me  then,  and  laid  there,"  the 
Sultan  said,  indicating  a  wide  couch  full  of  cushions. 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA  167 

Glad  to  escape  with  their  lives  the  officers  hurried  out  to 
do  the  royal  bidding. 

There  were  no  cruel  lines  about  the  Sultan's  mouth  as 
he  waited  their  return,  but  deep  gashes  of  pain  instead. 

A  silent  cavalcade  entered  the  tent  some  minutes  later: 
as  silent  as  the  Sultan  r:ho  stood  awaiting  them;  as  silent 
as  the  girl  with  the  red  stain  on  her  breast  and  the  red  blood 
on  her  lips. 

A  look  from  the  Sultan  dismissed  the  men. 

When  they  had  gone,  he  crossed  to  Pansy's  side,  and  stood 
gazing  down  at  her. 

She  lay  limp  and  white,  a  broken  lily  before  him, 

His  enemy's  daughter!  This  still,  white,  lovely  girl. 
This  pearl  among  women,  whom  he  had  tried  to  hate.  And 
now ! 

Pain  twisted  his  face. 

He  thought  of  Pansy  as  he  had  last  seen  her,  that  night 
on  her  yacht. 

She  had  wanted  to  bring  about  an  understanding  between 
them.  She  had  tried  to  see  things  from  his  point  of  view. 
She  was  prepared  to  make  allowances,  to  find  excuses  for 
him.  And  he  had  treated  her  with  harshness;  wilfully  set 
her  at  a  disadvantage;  purposely  had  misunderstood  her; 
deliberately  had  said  all  he  could  to  wound  her. 

He  had  done  his  best  to  hate  her.  He  had  put  vengeance 
before  love.  Now  he  had  his  reward.  His  wild  lust  for 
revenge  had  stilled  that  kind  heart  that  had  lived  to  do 
its  best  for  all. 

A  stifled  groan  came  to  his  lips. 

What  a  trick  Fate  had  played  upon  him! 

Leaning  over  the  couch  he  took  one  of  her  limp,  white 
hands  into  his  strong  brown  one.  The  little  hand  whose 
touch  could  always  soothe  his  restless  spirit,  that  had  once 
teased  and  caressed  him,  opening  out  visions  of  a  Paradise 
that  his  own  deeds  had  now  shut  out  from  him  for  ever. 

The  Fruit  of  the  Tree  of  Vengeance  is  bitter.     And  this 


168  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA 

Le  Breton  realized  to  the  fullest  as  he  gazed  at  the  silent 
girl. 

'Tansy,  don't  mock  me  from  beyond  the  Styx/'  he 
whispered.  "For  you  know  now  that  my  heart  is  broken. 
There's  nothing  but  grief  for  me  here  and  hereafter." 

Then  it  seemed  to  the  tortured  man  that  a  miracle 
happened. 

The  girl's  eyes  opened. 

For  a  brief  second  she  gazed  at  him  in  a  dazed,  bewildered 
manner.  Then  her  lids  dropped  weakly,  as  if  even  that 
slight  effort  were  too  much  for  her. 


CHAPTER  VI 

BLUE-BLACK  night  surrounded  the  Arab  encampment. 
Here  and  there  a  red  watch-fire  punctuated  the  darkness. 

Although  well  past  midnight,  a  light  burnt  in  the  Sultan's 
tent.  It  came  from  a  heavy  silver  lamp  slung  from  the  bar 
joining  the  two  main  supporting  poles. 

The  light  flickered  on  the  couch  where  Pansy  still  lay, 
limp  and  white  among  the  silken  cushions,  her  curls  making 
a  halo  about  her  pain-drawn  face.  She  was  no  longer  clad 
in  her  muslin  frock,  but  in  a  silk  nightgown  with  her  name- 
sakes embroidered  upon  it.  A  light  silk  rug  covered  her 
up  to  her  waist;  on  it  her  hands  lay,  weak  and  helpless. 

On  discovering  there  was  a  spark  of  life  left  in  his 
prisoner,  the  Sultan  had  sent  post-haste  to  an  adjacent  tent 
for  Edouard. 

When  the  doctor  arrived,  Le  Breton  stood  silent  whilst 
the  patient  was  examined,  in  an  agony  of  tortured  love 
awaiting  the  verdict. 

"There's  no  hope  unless  I  can  get  the  bullet  out/'  the 
doctor  had  remarked  at  the  end  of  the  examination.  "It 
escaped  her  heart  by  about  half  an  inch;  but  it  means  con- 
stant haemorrhage  if  it's  left  in  the  lungs." 

"And  if  it's  removed?"  the  Sultan  asked  hoarsely. 

Edouard  shrugged  his  shoulders  in  a  non-committal 
manner. 

"It'll  be  touch  and  go,  even  then.  But  she  might  pull 
through  with  care  and  attention.  She's  young  and  healthy. 
But  if  she  survives,  she'll  feel  the  effects  of  that  bullet  for 
some  time  to  come." 

With  that  Edouard  left  to  fetch  his  instruments,  leaving 
the  Sultan  gazing  down  at  the  result  of  his  own  mad  desire 
for  vengeance — a  red,  oozing  wound  on  a  girl's  white  breast 

169 


170  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA 

When  the  doctor  returned,  whilst  he  probed  after  the 
bullet  Le  Breton  held  Pansy  with  firm,  careful  strength, 
lest,  in  pain,  she  should  move  and  send  the  instrument  into 
the  heart  Cameron's  shot  had  just  missed.  But  she  was 
unconscious  through  it  all.  Although  the  probing  brought 
a  further  gush  of  blood,  Edouard  managed  to  locate  the 
bullet  and  extract  it. 

After  the  wound  was  dressed,  and  Pansy  bound  and 
bandaged  up,  the  doctor  left. 

With  his  departure  the  Sultan  sent  for  Pansy's  belong- 
ings, which  his  soldiers  had  brought  up  as  plunder  from 
the  raid. 

There  was  no  woman  among  his  following,  so  he  sent  one 
of  the  guards  to  inquire  if  there  was  one  among  the  captives. 

Presently  Pansy's  mulatto  maid  was  brought  to  him. 

Alice  was  a  pretty  brown  girl  of  about  seventeen,  clad 
in  a  blue  cotton  slip,  and  she  wore  a  yellow  silk  handker- 
chief tied  around  her  black  curls.  With  awe  she  gazed 
about  the  sumptuous  tent ;  with  admiration  at  her  handsome, 
kingly  captor. 

He,  however,  had  nothing  to  say  to  her,  beyond  giving 
her  instructions  to  serve  her  mistress  and  warning  her  to 
use  the  utmost  care. 

When  Alice  set  about  her  task  he  went  from  the  tent  to 
interview  Edouard. 

Pansy^s  condition  had  upset  his  plans.  Even  if  the  girl 
recovered,  she  could  not  be  moved  for  a  week  at  least,  no 
matter  how  carefully  her  litter  was  carried.  And  a  force 
as  large  as  his  could  not  stay  a  week  in  the  neighbourhood 
without  the  fact  becoming  known. 

When  Le  Breton  returned  he  dismissed  Alice,  and  he  seated 
himself  by  the  couch  and  stayed  there  watching  the  uncon- 
scious girl. 

Evening  shadows  crept  into  the  tent,  bringing  a  deft- 
handed,  silent  servant,  who  lighted  the  heavy  silver  lamp 
and  withdrew  as  silently  as  he  had  come.  Dinner  appeared ; 
a  sumptuous  meal  that  the  Sultan  waved  aside  impatiently. 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA  171 

Then  Edouard  came  again,  to  see  how  the  patient  was  far- 
ing; to  give  an  injection  and  go,  after  a  curious  glance  at 
the  big,  impassive  figure  of  his  patron  sitting  silent  and 
brooding  at  his  captive's  side. 

Gradually  the  noises  of  the  camp  died  down,  until  out- 
side there  was  only  the  sough  of  the  forest,  the  whisper  of 
the  wind  in  the  tree-tops,  the  occasional  stamp  of  a  horse's 
hoof,  the  hoot  of  an  owl  in  the  glade,  and,  every  now  and 
again  in  the  distance,  the  mocking  laugh  of  hyenas.  Mock- 
ing at  him,  it  seemed  to  Le  Breton;  at  a  man  whose  own 
doings  had  brought  his  beloved  to  death's  door. 

Within  the  tent  there  was  no  longer  silence.  Faint  little 
moans  whispered  through  it  occasionally,  mingling  with  the 
rustle  of  silken  curtains  and  the  sparking  of  the  lamp.  And 
every  now  and  again  there  were  weak  bouts  of  coughing; 
coughs  that  brought  an  ominous  red  stain  to  Pansy's  lips; 
stains  the  Sultan  dabbed  off  carefully  with  a  handkerchief, 
his  strong  hand  shaking  slightly,  his  arrogant  face  working 
strangely,  for  he  knew  he  was  responsible  for  the  life-blood 
upon  her  lips. 

Every  hour  Edouard  came  to  give  the  injection  which  held 
the  soul  back  from  the  grim,  bony  hands  of  death  that 
groped  after  it.  Once  or  twice  Pansy's  eyes  opened,  but  they 
closed  almost  instantly,  as  if  she  had  not  strength  enough 
to  hold  them  open. 

But  before  daybreak  her  coughs  had  ceased.  An  hour 
passed,  then  two,  without  that  ominous  red  stain  coming 
to  her  lips.  Edouard  nodded  to  himself  in  a  satisfied  way 
as  he  left  the  tent.  A  little  of  the  strained  look  left  the 
Sultan's  face. 

The  haemorrhage  had  stopped;  youth  and  health  were 
winning  the  battle. 

Just  as  the  first  pink  streak  of  dawn  entered  the  tent 
Pansy's  eyes  opened  again  and  stayed  open,  purple  wells 
of  pain  that  rested  on  the  Sultan's  with  a  puzzled  expression. 

Into  the  misty  world  of  suffering  and  weakness  in  which 
she  moved  it  seemed  to  her  that  Raoul  Lc  Breton  had  come, 


172  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA 

looking  at  her  as  he  had  once  looked,  with  love  and  tender- 
ness in  his  glowing  eyes. 

She  could  not  make  out  where  she  was  or  how  he  came 
to  be  there.  She  had  no  recollection  of  the  horde  who  had 
broken  into  the  guardroom  where  she  and  Cameron  had 
been.  She  was  too  full  of  suffering  to  give  any  thought 
to  the  problem.  Raoul  Le  Breton  was  with  her,  that  was 
enough. 

A  wan  smile  of  recognition  trembled  for  a  moment  on 
her  lips. 

"Raoul,"  she  said  faintly. 

It  was  more  a  sigh  than  a  word.  But  his  name  whispered 
so  feebly  brought  him.  kneeling  beside  her  couch,  bending 
over  her  eagerly. 

"My  darling,  forgive  me,"  he  whispered  passionately. 

He  bent  his  head  still  lower,  with  infiinite  tenderness 
kissing  the  white  lips  that  had  breathed  his  name  so  faintly. 

Pansy's  eyes  closed  again.  A  look  of  contentment  came 
to  mingle  with  the  suffering  on  her  face. 

Outside  the  hyenas  still  laughed  mockingly:  derisive 
echoes  from  a  distance.  But  Le  Breton  did  not  hear  them. 
Despite  his  treatment  of  her,  Pansy  had  smiled  upon  him. 
For  the  first  time  in  his  wild  life  he  felt  humility  and  grati- 
tude, both  new  sensations. 

When  Edouard  came  again  he  pronounced  the  girl  sleep- 
ing, not  unconscious. 

"With  care  and  attention  she'll  pull  through,"  he  said. 

"Thank  God !"  his  patron  exclaimed,  with  unfeigned  relief 
and  joy. 

Edouard  glanced  at  his  master  speculatively. 

He  had  heard  nothing  about  Pansy's  existence  until  he 
had  been  hurriedly  summoned  to  attend  her,  and  he  won- 
dered why  his  friend  and  patron  had  made  no  mention  of 
the  girl. 

"You  never  told  me  Barclay  had  a  daughter,"  he  com- 
mented. 


A  SON"  OF  THE  SAHARA  173 

"I  did  not  know  myself  until  quite  recently,"  the  Sultan 
replied. 

"Is  she  to  share  her  father's  fate  ?"  the  doctor  asked  drily. 

Tenderly  the  Sultan  gazed  at  the  small  white  face  on  the 
cushions. 

"She's  not  my  enemy,"  he  said  in  a  caressing  tone. 

With  a  feeling  of  relief,  Edouard  left  the  tent. 

It  was  most  evident  that  the  Sultan  had  fallen  in  love  with 
his  beautiful  captive.  If  the  girl  played  her  cards  well, 
she  would  be  able  to  save  her  father,  and  prevent  his  patron 
doling  out  death  to  a  British  official,  thus  embroiling  himself 
still  further  with  the  English  Government. 

After  the  doctor  had  left,  Le  Breton  sat  on  Pansy's 
couch.  Yet  he  had  not  learnt  his  lesson. 

Although  he  loved  the  daughter,  he  hated  the  father  as 
intensely  as  ever.  Now  he  was  making  other  plans;  plans 
that  would  enable  him  to  keep  both  love  and  vengeance. 
Plans,  too,  that  might  make  the  girl  forget  his  colour  and 
give  him  the  love  he  now  craved  for  so  wildlj. 


CHAPTER  VII 

IN  one  of  the  tents  in  the  glade  Sir  George  Barclay  sat,  an 
Arab  guard  on  either  side  of  him.  There  was  an  almost 
stupefied  air  about  him;  of  a  man  whose  world  has  sud- 
denly got  beyond  his  control. 

The  previous  afternoon,  without  any  warning,  his  party 
had  been  set  upon  and  captured;  but  by  whom,  and  why, 
he  did  not  know.  There  was  no  rebellious  chief  in  the 
district;  no  discontent.  Yet  he  was  a  prisoner  in  the  hands 
of  some  wild  tribe;  captured  so  suddenly  that  not  one  of 
his  men  had  escaped  to  take  word  to  the  next  British  out- 
post and  bring  up  a  force  to  his  assistance. 

There  was  but  one  streak  of  consolation  in  his  broodings 
— the  knowledge  that  his  daughter  had  not  fallen  alive  into 
the  hands  of  the  barbaric  soldiery. 

Some  little  time  after  he  had  been  brought  a  prisoner 
to  the  glade  he  had  seen  Cameron  come  in,  white  and  shak- 
ing with  fever. 

On  seeing  his  chief,  the  young  man  had  shouted  across 
the  space : 

"Thank  God !   the  niggers  haven't  got  Pansy  alive." 

They  were  given  no  time  for  further  conversation,  for 
one  was  hustled  this  way  and  one  that. 

As  Barclay  sat  brooding  on  the  fate  that  had  overtaken 
his  party  and  trying  to  find  a  reason  for  it,  someone  entered 
the  tent. 

In  the  newcomer  he  recognised  the  leader  of  the  force 
that  had  waylaid  and  captured  him  and  his  party. 

"So,  George  Barclay,  we  meet  for  a  second  time,"  a  deep 
voice  said  savagely  in  French. 

Barclay  scanned  the  big  man  in  the  white  burnoose  who 
stood  looking  at  him  with  hatred  in  his  dark,  fiery  eyes. 

174 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA  175 

To  his  knowledge  he  had  never  seen  him  before. 

"Where  did  we  first  meet?"  he»asked  quietly. 

"Sixteen  years  ago,  when  you  murdered  my  father,  the 
Sultan  Casim  Ammeh." 

Sir  George  started  violently  and  .scanned  the  man  anew. 
He  had  a  reason  now  for  the  untoward  happenings. 

"Do  you  remember  all  I  promised  for  you  and  yours 
that  day  you  refused  to  listen  to  my  pleadings?"  the  savage 
voice  asked. 

Barclay  remembered  only  too  well.  And  as  he  looked  at 
the  ruthless  face  before  him  he  was  more  than  ever  thankful 
for  one  thing. 

"Thank  God.  my  daughter  is  dead!"  he  said. 

The  Sultan  smiled,  coldly,  cruelly. 

"Your  daughter  is  not  dead,"  he  replied.  "She  is  alive; 
just  alive.  And  you  may  rest  assured  that  she'll  have  every 
care  and  attention." 

The  news  left  Barclay  staring  in  a  stricken  manner  at 
his  captor. 

"My  doctor  assures  me  that  she  will  live,"  the  Sultan 
went  on.  "And  you  will  live,  too,  to  see  her  sold  as  a 
slave  in  the  public  market  of  my  city." 

Sir  George  said  nothing.  The  thought  of  Pansy's  ghastly 
fate  placed  him  beyond  speech.  At  that  moment  he  could 
only  pray  that  she  might  die. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THREE  days  elapsed  before  Pansy  returned  to  full  conscious- 
ness, and  even  then  the  world  was  a  very  hazy  place.  One 
morning  she  woke  up,  almost  too  weak  to  move,  with  a 
feeling  that  she  must  have  had  a  bad  attack  of  fever.  She 
tried  to  sit  up,  but  Alice,  her  mulatto  maid,  bent  over  her 
quickly,  pressing  her  back  gently  on  the  pillows. 

"No,  Missy  Pansy,"  that  familiar,  crooning  voice  said 
with  an  air  of  authority.  "De  doctor  say  you  stay  dere  and 
no  move." 

Pansy  was  not  at  all  anxious  to  move  after  that  one  at- 
tempt. The  effort  had  brought  knife-like  pains  cutting 
through  her  chest,  and  she  had  had  to  bite  her  lip  to  keep 
herself  from  crying  out  in  agony. 

All  day  she  lay  in  silence,  sleeping  most  of  the  time, 
when  awake,  thankful  just  to  lie  still,  for  even  to  talk  hurt 
her;  grateful  when  Alice  fed  her,  because  she  would  rather 
have  gone  hungry  than  have  faced  the  pain  that  sitting  up 
entailed. 

Sometimes,  from  outside,  came  the  rattle  of  harness,  the 
stamp  of  a  hoof,  men's  voices  talking  in  a  strange  language. 
But  Pansy  was  used  to  such  sounds  now,  and  thought  noth- 
ing of  them ;  they  had  been  around  her  all  the  time  she  had 
been  on  tour  with  her  father. 

The  next  day  the  mist  had  cleared  considerably.  Pansy 
realised  she  was  in  a  big  tent,  not  an  affair  of  plain  green 
canvas,  such  as  she  had  lived  in  quite  a  lot  during  her  expe- 
dition into  the  wilds,  but  a  place  of  barbaric  splendour.  Silk 
hangings  draped  the  canvas  walls;  rich  curtains  heavily  em- 
broidered with  gold.  The  very  poles  that  held  the  structure 
up  were  of  silver,  and  a  heavy  silver  lamp  was  suspended 
from  the  central  bar.  Priceless  rugs  covered  the  ground, 

176 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA  177 

and  here  and  there  were  piles  of  soft,  silk  cushions.  There 
were  one  or  two  little  ebony  tables  and  stools  inlaid  with 
silver  and  ivory.  Her  bed  was  a  low  couch  of  soft  silk  and 
down  cushions.  And  on  the  floor  beside  her  was  a  beaten 
gold  tray  where  jewelled  cups  reposed,  and  dishes  with  col- 
oured sherbets  and  other  tempting  dainties. 

Pansy's  gaze  stayed  on  Alice  in  a  puzzling  manner. 

Alice  looked  much  the  same,  as  plump  and  pretty  as  ever, 
but  with  an  even  more  "pleased  with  herself"  expression 
than  usual  upon  her  round  smiling  face. 

From  her  maid  Pansy  glanced  towards  the  entrance  of 
the  tent.  The  flap  was  fastened  back,  letting  in  a  flood 
of  fresh,  gold-tinged  morning  air.  Just  outside,  two 
dark-faced,  white-robed  men  were  stationed,  and,  beyond, 
were  others,  and  a  glimpse  of  trees. 

Pansy's  eyes  stayed  on  the  Arabs  guarding  her  quarters. 

In  a  vague  way  they  were  familiar. 

With  a  rush  came  back  the  happenings  of  the  afternoon 
when  she  had  been  having  tea  with  Cameron  in  the  old 
guardroom. 

Men  such  as  those  outside  had  burst  in  upon  them  when 
the  brave  old  door  had  given  way. 

A  wave  of  sickly  fear  swept  over  the  girl. 

Was  she  a  prisoner  in  the  hands  of  that  wild  horde? 

But,  if  so,  what  was  she  doing  in  the  midst  of  all  this 
splendour,  this  riot  of  luxury,  with  the  softest  of  cushions  to 
lie  on,  the  choicest  of  silk  rugs  to  cover  her,  and  Alice  sit- 
ting contentedly  at  her  side? 

Perhaps  Bob  could  give  her  the  key  to  the  situation. 

"Alice,"  she  said  weakly,  "run  and  tell  Captain  Cameron 
I  want  to  speak  to  him/' 

"He  no  be  here,  Miss  Pansy,"  the  girl  replied.  "He  go  to 
de  Sultan  Casim  Ammeh's  city." 

Alice  pronounced  the  Sultan's  name  with  gusto.  The 
desert  ruler  with  his  barbaric  splendour  and  troop  of  wild 
^orsemen  had  impressed  her  far  more  than  the  English  gov- 
ernor and  his  retinue.  She  did  not  at  all  mind  being  his 


178  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA 

prisoner.     Moreover  she  was  a  privileged  person,  told  off 
specially  by  the  Sultan  to  nurse  her  mistress. 

For  some  moments  Pansy  pondered  on  what  her  maid  had 
said. 

"The  Sultan  Casim  Ammeh,"  Pansy  repeated  presently, 
with  an  air  of  bewilderment. 

"Dat  be  him,"  Alice  assured  her.  "A  great  big,  fine  man, 
awful  good-looking.  I  see  him.  An7  my  heart  go  all  soft. 
He  so  rich  and  proud  and  grand.  But  he  no  look  at  me, 
only  at  you,  Miss  Pansy,"  she  finished,  sighing. 

Pansy  hardly  heard  this  rhapsody  over  her  captor. 

His  name  was  familiar  but  half  forgotten,  like  the  fairy 
tales  of  her  childhood. 

Then  she  suddenly  remembered  who  and  what  he  was. 

The  youthful  Sultan  who,  long  years  ago,  had  sworn  to 
kill  her  father  and  sell  her  as  a  slave ! 

The  man  Alice  mentioned  must  be  the  boy  grown  up! 
It  must  have  been  his  hordes  who  had  swept  down  on  her  and 
Bob  that  afternoon. 

But  it  was  not  of  herself  that  Pansy  thought  when  the 
truth  dawned  on  her  with  vivid,  sickening  force.  In  anxiety 
for  her  father  she  forgot  the  fate  promised  for  herself. 

"My  father!  What  has  happened  to  him?"  she  asked  in 
quick  alarm. 

"De  Sultan,  he  catch   Sir  George  too,"  Alice   answere 
coolly. 

Pansy's  heart  stood  still. 

"Is  he  still  alive?"  she  asked  breathlessly,  horror  clutch- 
ing at  her. 

"Sir  George  he  go  also  to  the  city  of  El-Ammeh,  de  Sul- 
tan's city." 

A  feeling  of  overwhelming  relief  swept  over  Pansy  on 
hearing  her  father  was  still  alive. 

For  some  minutes  she  lay  brooding  on  the  horrible  situ- 
ation and  how  she  could  best  cope  with  it,  all  the  time  feel- 
ing as  if  she  were  in  some  wild  nightmare.  Then  s**"  re- 
membered her  own  vast  riches. 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAEA  179 

All  these  Arab  chiefs  knew  the  value  of  money. 
She  might  be  able  to  ransom  her  father,  herself,  the  whole 
party. 

"Where  is  the  Sultan?  Tell  him  I  want  to  see  him,"  she 
said  suddenly  in  a  weak,  excited  way. 

"He  no  be  here.  He  go  back  to  El-Ammeh.  You  go,  too, 
Miss  Pansy,  an'  I  go  wid  you,  when  Doctor  Edouard  say  you 
be  fit  to  move." 

Pansy  clutched  at  the  name  of  Edouard.  After  that  of 
the  Sultan  Casim  Ammeh  it  had  a  welcome  European 
sound. 

"Where  is  Doctor  Edouard?  Can  I  speak  to  him?"  she 
asked  quickly. 

She  hardly  noticed  the  pain  within  herself  now,  torn  as 
she  was  with  anxiety  for  her  father  and  friends. 

Alice  rose,  ready  to  oblige. 

"I  go  fetch  him,"  she  said. 

Leaving  the  tent,  she  interviewed  one  of  the  guards.  Then 
she  passed  on  beyond  Pansy's  view. 

She  reappeared  some  few  moments  later  accompanied  by 
a  short,  stoutish  man  with  a  pointed,  black  beard,  unmistak- 
ably of  French  nationality,  who  was  dressed  in  a  neat  white 
drill  suit  and  a  sun  helmet. 

Anxiously  Pansy  watched  him  approach,  with  no  room 
in  her  mind  to  think  how  he  came  to  be  there,  a  person  as 
European  as  herself,  in  this  savage  Sultan's  following. 

"Do  tell  me  what  has  happened!"  she  said,  without  any 
preliminaries,  the  moment  he  halted  at  her  bedside. 

However,  Edouard  did  not  tell  Pansy  much  more  than  she 
had  already  culled  for  herself.  But  she  learnt  that  the 
whole  of  her  father's  party  were  prisoners  in  the  hands  of 
this  desert  chief  and  were  now  on  their  way  back  to  his 
capital. 

"But  can't  you  do  something?"  she  asked  in  despair. 

"I'm   virtually   a   prisoner,   like   yourself,"   Edouard   re- 
plied in  a  non-committal  tone. 
*    He  was  not  a  prisoner,  but  he  was  paid  a  good  price  for 


180  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA 

his  services  and  his  silence ;  and  he  had  no  intention  of  play- 
ing an  excellent  friend  and  patron  false. 

"But  is  there  nothing  I  can  do?"  Pansy  asked,  aghast  at 
her  own  utter  helplessness. 

Edouard  smiled,  remembering  the  Sultan's  concern  for 
the  beautiful  captive  girl. 

"Yes;  there's  one  thing,"  he  replied  in  a  soothing  tone. 
"Don't  worry  about  the  matter  just  at  present.  But  when 
you  get  to  El-Ammeh  use  all  your  personal  influence  with 
the  Sultan.  In  the  meantime  you  can  rest  assured  that  no 
harm  will  happen  to  Sir  George  and  his  staff-  Afterwards  I 
rather  fancy  everything  depends  on  you.'' 

With  this  Pansy  had  to  be  content. 


CHAPTER  IX 

IN  Bathhurst,  the  deputy  Governor  awaited  news  of  Sir 
George  Barclay.  More  than  a  month  had  passed  since  he 
had  left  the  town,  and  during  most  of  the  time  letters  had 
come  through  regularly  to  official  headquarters.  The  dep- 
uty knew  that  the  furthermost  point  of  the  tour  must  now 
be  about  reached ;  but  nearly  a  week  had  passed  without  any 
communication,  official  or  otherwise,  coming  from  the  party. 
The  fact  was  not  alarming;  the  part  Sir  George  must  now  be 
in  was  the  wildest  in  the  colony,  and  a  week  might  easily  pass 
without  any  message  coming  through. 

But  when  another  day  or  so  passed  without  bringing  any 
news,  the  deputy  began  to  wonder  what  had  happened. 

"The  letters  must  have  gone  astray,"  one  of  the  officera  re- 
marked. 

"Or  some  leopard  has  gobbled  up  the  postman/'  another 
suggested. 

For  a  couple  of  days  longer  the  deputy  and  military  officers 
waited,  hourly  expecting  some  message  from  the  Governor's 
party,  but  none  came.  There  was  no  reason  to  think  that 
harm  had  befallen  them,  for  the  colony  was  in  perfect  order. 

Then  they  sent  up  for  news  to  the  next  town  of  any  im- 
portance, only  to  hear  that  nothing  had  been  heard  there 
either. 

The  answer  astounded  them. 

An  expedition  was  sent  off  post-haste  to  find  out  what  had 
happened  to  the  party. 

They  were  nearly  a  fortnight  in  reaching  the  old  fort,  the 
last  spot  where  any  message  had  come  from.  And  there  they 
found  the  British  flag  still  flying  over  the  official  headquar- 
ters, but  both  the  bungalow  and  the  fortress  were  deserted. 

181 


182  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAKA 

In  the  old  guardroom  and  the  compound  were  a  few  gnawed 
human  bones;  but  there  was  no  other  trace  of  the  missing 
expedition,  although  there  was  every  sign  that  disaster  had 
overtaken  it. 

The  officials  were  aghast.  Sir  George  and  his  staff  had 
completely  disappeared.  That  there  had  been  fighting  was 
evident.  The  bones  in  the  guardroom  and  compound  told 
them  that  much,  but  all  trace  of  their  identity  had  been 
gnawed  off  by  prowling  hyenas. 

The  country  around  was  scoured,  but  it  brought  no  clue. 
The  French  Government  was  communicated  with,  but  it 
could  throw  no  light  on  the  affair. 

When  the  news  reached  England  it  caused  a  sensation,  for 
Society  culled  that  Sir  George  Barclay's  daughter,  the  lovely 
twenty-year-old  heiress,  Pansy  Langham,  was  among  those 
missing — dead  now,  or  perhaps  worse;  the  chattel  of  one  of 
the  wild  marauders  who  had  fallen  so  swiftly  and  silently 
upon  her  father's  party. 

And  in  a  pleasant  English  country  house  Miss  Grainger 
wept  for  the  bright,  brave  girl  who  had  always  been  such  a 
generous  friend  and  considerate  mistress. 


CHAPTER  X 

BY  the  time  the  news  of  the  disappearance  of  Sir  George 
Barclay's  party  reached  England,  Pansy  was  well  on  her 
way  to  El-Ammeh. 

She  arrived  there  one  night  after  dark,  a  darkness  out 
from  which  high  walls  loomed  and  over  them  strange  sounds 
came;  the  thin  wail  of  stringed  instruments;  a  tom-tom 
throbbing  through  the  blue  night;  the  plaintive  song  of 
some  itinerant  musician,  and  the  shuffle  of  crowded  human 
life. 

She  was  not  given  much  time  to  dwell  upon  those  things. 
Her  escort  skirted  the  high  walls.  A  big  horse-shoe  arch 
loomed  up,  with  heavy  iron  gates;  gates  that  clanged  back 
as  they  approached.  And  the  flare  of  torches  showed  a  long 
passage  leading  into  darkness. 

Into  the  passage  her  litter  was  carried  with  a  swaying, 
somnolent  movement.  Then  the  gates  closed  with  a  clang 
behind  her,  leaving  the  escort  outside;  and  she  and  Alice 
were  alone  with  the  flaming  torches,  the  black,  engulfing 
passage,  and  half  a  dozen  huge  negroes  in  gorgeous  raiment 

With  a  sickly  feeling,  Pansy  slipped  from  her  litter. 

Her  journey's  end ! 

The  journey  had  lasted  over  six  weeks.  Under  other 
circumstances  Pansy  would  have  enjoyed  it.  It  could  not 
have  been  more  comfortable.  She  had  travelled  in  the  cool 
of  the  morning  and  in  the  cool  of  the  evening.  Always  for 
the  long  midday  halt  the  same  sumptuous  tent  was  up,  await- 
ing her  reception,  taken  down  again  after  she  had  departed, 
and  up  again  before  she  arrived  at  the  next  halting  place. 

The  country  she  travelled  through  was  an  interesting  one, 
park-like  and  grassy  at  first,  as  the  weeks  passed  becoming 

183 


184  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHABA 

eyer  more  sandy  and  arid,  with  occasional  patches  that  were 
wonderfully  fertile.  Until,  finally,  like  a  glowing,  yellow 
sea  before  her,  she  had  her  first  glimpse  of  the  Sahara  on 
its  southern  side — billow  upon  billow  of  flaming  sand, 
stretching  away  to  a  tensely  blue  sky,  with  here  and  there 
a  stunted  bush,  a  twist  of  coarse  grass,  or  a  clump  of  dis- 
torted cacti  with  red  flowers  blazing  against  the  heated,  shim- 
mering air — a  vast  solitude  where  nothing  moved. 

For  a  week  they  had  journeyed  through  the  desert.  Late 
one  evening  a  lake  came  into  view,  with  fruitful  gardens 
growing  around  it,  where  date  palms,  olives,  and  clustering 
vines  flourished.  On  the  far  side  a  walled  city  showed. 

It  lay  golden  in  the  misty  glow  of  evening,  its  minarets 
standing  out  against  a  shadowed  sky.  Even  as  she 
approached  it  had  been  swallowed  by  darkness.  Softly  the 
lake  lapped  as  they  skirted  it,  and  the  world  was  filled  with 
a  constant  hissing  sigh,  the  sound  of  shifting  sand  when  the 
wind  roamed  over  it — the  voice  of  the  desert. 

Much  as  Pansy  dreaded  her  journey's  end,  she  welcomed 
it. 

She  lived  for  nothing  now  but  to  see  the  Sultan ;  to  plead 
with  him  for  her  father,  her  friends,  herself.  And  she 
buoyed  herself  up  with  the  hope  that  her  own  riches  would 
enable  her  to  ransom  them  all. 

But  if  she  failed ! 

She  grew  sick  at  the  thought.  And  the  thought  was  with 
her  as  she  stood  in  the  stone  passage,  her  strained  eyes  on 
the  gigantic  negro  guards  who  had  come  to  escort  her  to  her 
new  quarters.  They  were  attired  from  head  to  foot  in  rich, 
brightly  coloured  silks,  and  they  literally  blazed  with  jewels. 

The  man  who  was  their  master  might  have  so  much 
money  that  he  would  prefer  revenge. 

This  thought  was  in  Pansy's  mind  some  minutes  later 
when  she  sat  alone  with  her  maid  in  one  of  the  many  apart- 
ments in  the  palace  of  El-Ammeh. 

It  was  a  big  room  with  walls  and  floor  of  gold  mosaic,  and 


A  SON  OP  THE  SAHAEA  186 

a  domed  ceiling  of  sapphire-blue  where  cut  rock-crystals 
flashed  like  stare.  Five  golden  lamps  hung  from  it,  sus- 
pended by  golden  chains;  lamps  set  with  flat  emeralds  and 
rubies  and  sapphires. 

It  was  furnished  very  much  as  her  tent  had  been,  except 
that  there  were  wide  ottomans  against  the  gilded  walls,  and 
the  tables  and  stools  were  of  sandalwood.  In  one  corner 
stood  a  large  bureau  of  the  same  sweet-scented  wood,  beauti- 
fully carved.  Three  heavy,  pointed  doors  of  sandalwood  led 
into  the  apartment.  The  place  was  heavy  with  its  sensuous 
odour. 

In  a  little  alcove  draped  with  curtains  of  gold  tissue  the 
negroes  deposited  Pansy's  belongings.  Then  they  withdrew, 
leaving  the  girl  and  her  maid  alone ;  Pansy  with  the  depress- 
ing feeling  that  money  might  not  have  much  influence  with 
the  Sultan  Casim  Ammeh. 

Two  of  the  doors  of  her  gilded  prison  were  locked,  Panay 
quickly  discovered.  Outside  of  the  one  she  had  entered  by 
a  couple  of  negro  guards  were  stationed,  who  refused  to  let 
her  pass. 

On  learning  this,  she  went  out  into  the  fretted  gallery. 
Below  a  garden  lay.  She  stood  at  the  head  of  the  steps 
leading  into  it,  anxious  to  get  away  from  the  dim  scented 
silence  of  the  great  room,  in  touch  with  the  trees  and  stars 
and  the  cool,  rose-scented  breath  of  night  that  she  under- 
stood. 

She  tried  to  argue  that  all  the  splendour  and  luxury 
placed  at  her  disposal  boded  well  for  the  future,  that  her 
captor  might  not  be  going  to  carry  out  his  threats. 

Her  gaze  turned  towards  the  room,  with  its  wealth  and 
luxury — a  fit  setting  for  a  Sultan's  favourite. 

Pansy  shivered. 

What  price  might  she  not  have  to  pay  for  her  father's 
life? 

Then  she  thought  of  Raoul  Le  Breton.  The  dark  blood 
in  him  seemed  nothing  now,  compared  with  the  thought  of 
liaving  to  become  the  chattel  of  this  wild,  desert  chief. 


186  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA 

Slight  sounds  in  the  big  room  roused  her  from  her  reverie. 

She  started  violently,  expecting  to  see  the  Sultan  coming 
to  make  his  bargain. 

But  only  a  couple  of  white-robed  servants  were  there. 

The  biggtest  of  the  inlaid  tables  was  seb  for  dinner; 
a  dinner  for  one,  set  in  a  European  way.  And  the  meal  that 
followed  was  the  work  of  a  skilled  French  chef. 

But  the  sumptuous  repast  had  no  charm  for  a  girl  worried 
to  death  at  tbe  thought  of  her  own  fate  and  her  father's. 
To  please  Alice  she  made  some  pretence  of  eating. 

Leaving  her  maid  to  revel  in  the  neglected  dainties,  Pansy 
went  back  to  her  vigil  in  the  arches. 

In  course  of  time,  the  lamps  burning  low,  Alice's  pro- 
digious yawns  drove  her  to  lie  wakeful  among  the  soft 
cushions  of  one  of  the  ottomans. 

From  fitful  slumbers  Alice's  voice  roused  her  the  next 
morning.  Alice  with  the  usual  early  morning  tea,  a  tray 
of  choice  fruit,  and  a  basket  full  of  rare  and  beautiful 
flowers. 

Distastefully  Pansy  looked  at  the  choice  blossoms.  She 
felt  they  were  from  the  Sultan  to  his  unwilling  visitor;  a 
silent  message  of  admiration ;  of  homage,  perhaps. 

"Take  them  away,  Alice,"  she  said  quickly.  "And  put 
them  where  I  can't  see  them." 

With  a  curious  glance  at  her  mistress,  the  girl  obeyed. 

Pansy  drank  her  tea,  all  the  time  pondering  on  her 
future. 

If  she  had  to  go  under,  she  would  go  under  fighting.  If 
this  wild  chief  were  prepared  to  give  her  her  father's  life  in 
exchange  for  herself,  she  would  see  that  he  got  as  little 
pleasure  as  possible  out  of  his  bargain.  If  he  were  infatu- 
ated with  her  as  Alice  and  Dr.  Edouard  seemed  to  think, 
go  much  the  better.  All  the  more  keenly  he  would  feel  the 
lashes  her  tongue  would  be  able  to  give. 

Pansy  knew  he  spoke  French,  for  this  fact  had  come  into 
the  story  her  father  had  told  her  in  years  gone  by. 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA  187 

In  thinking  of  the  cutting  things  she  would  be  able  to 
*ay  to  her  captor,  Pansy  tried  to  keep  at  bay  the  dread  she 
felt.  Since  he  was  not  there  to  hit  at  in  person,  she  hit  at 
him  with  sneers  at  his  race  to  Alice. 

"I  don't  suppose  there's  anywhere  I  can  have  a  bath,"  she 
remarked  when  her  tea  was  finished.  "Cleanliness  isn't  one 
of  the  virtues  of  these  Arabs." 

"Dere  be  one,"  Alice  assurred  her.  "De  most  beautifullest 
one  you  eber  saw." 

Pansy  agreed  with  her  maid  some  minutes  later  when  she 
was  splashing  about  in  its  cool  waters. 

Alice  had  pointed  out  the  place  to  her.  In  dressing-gown 
and  slippers,  Pansy  had  passed  through  the  wide  gallery,  a 
lacy  prison  of  stone  it  seemed  to  the  girl,  for  although  it 
gave  a  wide  view  of  the  desert,  there  was  not  one  spot  in  its 
carved  side  that  she  could  have  put  her  hand  through. 

Immediately  beneath  lay  a  garden,  surrounded  by  a  high 
wall. 

Pansy  had  seen  many  gardens,  but  none  to  equal  the  one 
before  her  in  peace  and  beauty.  It  was  a  dream  of  roses. 
In  the  middle  was  a  sunken  pond  where  water-lilies  floated 
and  carp  swam  and  gaped  at  her  with  greedy  mouths  when 
her  shadow  fell  across  them,  as  if  expecting  to  be  fed. 
Vivid  green  velvety  turf  surrounded  the  pond,  a  rarity  in 
that  arid  country.  There  was  nothing  else  in  the  garden  but 
roses,  of  every  shade  and  colour.  They  streamed  in  cascades 
over  the  high  walls.  They  grew  in  banks  by  the  pond,  in 
trellised  alleys  and  single  bushes.  The  garden  was  a  gem 
of  cool  greenness,  scent  and  silence,  and  over  it  brooded  the 
shadows  of  gigantic  cypresses. 

The  bath-room  lay  beneath  the  stone  gallery,  with  fretted 
and  columned  arches  where  more  roses  clung  and  climbed, 
opening  directly  on  the  scented  quiet  of  the  garden.  It 
was  a  huge  basin  of  white  marble,  about  thirty  feet  across 
and  deep  enough  to  swim  in,  with  a  carved  edge,  delicate 
as  lace. 


188  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA 

Pansy  was  in  no  mood  to  appreciate  her  fairy-like  sur- 
roundings. And  the  beauty  of  her  prison  in  no  way  softened 
her  heart  towards  her  captor. 

As  she  splashed  about  in  the  bath,  over  the  high  walls 
came  the  sound  of  bells,  like  church  chimes  wrangling  in  the 
distance  on  an  English  Sunday. 

Wistfully  Pansy  stopped  and  listened  to  them.  She  was 
travelled  enough  to  recognize  them  as  camel  bells;  some 
train  coming  to  this  barbaric  city. 

When  she  returned  to  the  dim,  guilded  room,  breakfast 
was  awaiting  her;  an  ordinary  Continental  breakfast. 

She  pecked  at  it,  too  sick  at  heart  to  eat.  Then  she  sat 
on,  awaiting  Edouard's  appearance.  He  had  parted  with 
her  the  previous  night,  promising  to  come  and  see  her  when 
she  was  installed  in  the  Sultan's  palace. 

It  was  evening  before  he  came.  Pansy  greeted  him 
eagerly.  All  day  she  had  dreaded  that  her  captor  might 
appear.  But  she  wanted  to  see  him,  to  satisfy  herself  about 
her  father. 

Edouard's  visits  to  her  were  purely  professional,  and  brief. 
Always  his  idea  was  to  get  away,  for  his  conscience  pricked 
him  where  Pansy  was  concerned.  He  was  used  to  his  pa- 
tron's wild  ways,  and  he  knew  the  girl's  position  was  not  of 
her  own  choosing. 

"Will  you  tell  the  Sultan  I  want  to  see  him?"  she  said 
when  he  rose  to  go. 

"Hasn't  he  paid  you  a  visit  yet?"  the  doctor  asked  with 
surprise. 

"No,  and  I'm  so  worried  about  my  father." 

Edouard  left,  promising  to  deliver  her  message.  But  he 
came  the  next  day,  saying  the  Sultan  had  refused  to  grant 
tier  an  interview. 

"I  wonder  why  he  won't  see  me,"  she  said  drearily. 

Edouard  wondered  also. 

That  evening  he  dined  with  his  friend  and  patron,  not  in 
a  gorgeous  Eastern  apartment  like  Pansy's,  but  in  one  that 
vras  decidedly  Western  in  its  fittings  and  appointments. 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA  189 

AJad  the  Sultan  was  attired  as  Pansy  had  seen  him  several 
times  in  Grand  Canary,  in  black  dress-suit,  white  pleated 
shirt  and  the  black  pearl  studs. 

Dinner  was  over  before  Edouard  approached  the  subject 
of  the  girl-prisoner. 

"If  I  were  you  I'd  see  Miss  Barclay,"  he  said.  "This 
suspense  won't  do  her  any  good.  She  frets  all  day  about 
her  father." 

"It's  not  in  my  plans  to  see  her  just  yet,"  the  Sultan 
replied. 

Edouard  glanced  at  him. 

Then  he  did  what  for  him  was  a  bold  thing,  fat  and 
comfortable  and  fond  of  his  easy  berth  as  he  was.  He 
challenged  his  royal  master  concerning  his  intentions 
towards  the  captive  girl. 

"What  are  your  plans  with  regard  to  Miss  Barclay?" 
he  ventured.  "She's  not  one  of  the  sort  who  can  be  bought 
with  a  string  of  pearls  or  a  diamond  bracelet." 

"I'm  going  to  marry  her,"  the  Sultan  said  easily. 

Edouard  experienced  a  feeling  of  relief,  on  his  own 
account  as  much  as  Pansy's. 

The  doctor  studied  her  with  renewed  interest  the  next 
day  when  he  paid  her  his  usual  visit. 

"If  I  sent  a  note  to  the  Sultan,  do  you  think  it  would 
be  any  use?"  Pansy  asked  him  anxiously,  the  moment 
he  had  done  with  professional  matters. 

"It  would  do  no  harm  at  any  rate,"  he  replied. 

Pansy  got  to  her  feet  quickly. 

She  knew  Edouard  was  in  touch  with  her  captor — a 
prisoner  like  herself  she  imagined,  but  free  to  come  and 
go  because  of  his  calling.  She  did  not  know  he  was  a  man 
so  faithful  to  his  master  that  the  latter's  smallest  wish  wap 
carried  out  to  the  letter. 

Going  into  the  alcove  where  her  belongings  were,  Pansy 
seated  herself  on  the  edge  of  a  couch,  with  a  writing-pad 
on  her  knee.  For  some  minutes  she  stayed  frowning  at  a 
blank  piece  of  paper.  It  was  so  difficult  to  know  what  to 


190  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAKA 

say  to  this  savage  chief  who  held  the  lives  of  her  father 
and  friends  in  his  hands. 

After  some  minutes  thinking  she  wrote: 

"To  THE  SULTAN  CASIM  AMMEH. 

Perhaps  you  do  not  know  that  I  am  very  rich.  Any  price 
you  may  ask  I  am  prepared  to  give  for  my  father's  life  and 
freedom,  for  the  lives  and  freedom  of  my  English  friends  who 
are  also  your  prisoners,  and  for  my  own.  The  ransom  will  be  paid 
to  you  in  gold.  All  you  will  have  to  do  will  be  to  mention  the 
sum  you  want,  and  allow  me  to  send  a  message  through  to  my 
bank  in  England. 

PANSY  LANGHAM  BARCLAY." 

The  note  was  put  into  an  envelope,  sealed,  addressed 
and  taken  out  to  Edouard. 

On  handing  it  over,  however,  Pansy  suddenly  recollected 
that  the  Sultan,  for  all  his  wealth  and  power,  might  be 
ignorant  of  the  arts  of  reading  and  writing. 

"Can  he  read  French?"  she  asked. 

An  amused  look  came  to  the  doctor's  face. 

"If  he  can't  make  it  out,  I'll  read  it  to  him/'  he  replied. 

It  was  evening  before  Le  Breton  got  the  note.  Le 
Breton  again  as  Pansy  knew  him,  in  khaki  riding-suit, 
just  as  he  had  returned  from  a  ride  on  her  old  race-horse, 
that  had  been  brought  to  his  camp  the  day  of  her  capture, 
and  was  now  in  the  palace  stables. 

The  note  was  lying  on  his  desk,  with  the  name  that  Pansy 
now  hated — the  Sultan  Casim  Ammeh — written  on  the  en- 
velope in  her  pretty  hand. 

A  tender  look  hovered  about  his  mouth  as  he  picked 
up  the  letter  and  read  it.  Again  the  girl  was  "doing  her 
best"  for  some  helpless  creatures — his  prisoners.  Although 
the  fact  filled  him  with  an  even  greater  admiration  for 
Pansy,  it  did  not  lessen  his  hatred  for  her  father. 

He  sat  down  and  dashed  off  a  brief  reply  in  an  assumed 
hand. 

"All  the  gold  in  Africa  will  not  buy  my  vengeance  from  me. 

CASIM  AMMEH." 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA  191 

His  answer  reached  Pansy  with  her  dinner,  reducing 
her  to  despair. 

It  seemed  that  nothing  she  could  do  would  have  any 
influence  with  this  savage  ruler. 

Hopeless  days  followed;  days  that  brought  her  nothing 
but  a  series  of  elaborate  meals.  Yet  she  knew  that  life 
went  on  around  her;  a  life  quite  different  from  any  she 
had  been  accustomed  to. 

Morning  and  night  she  heard  faint  voices  wailing  from 
unseen  minarets.  Over  the  high  walls  of  her  garden  came 
the  hum  of  a  crowded  city.  From  her  screened  gallery 
she  saw  camel  trains  loom  out  of  the  haze  of  distance  to 
El-Ammeh,  with  a  wrangle  of  sweet  bells;  camels  that  came 
from  some  vast  unknown. 

And  there  was  another  sound  that  Pansy  heard;  a 
sound  that  hailed  from  somewhere  within  the  Palace;  that 
always  came  about  bedtime,  and  always  set  her  shivering; 
the  sound  of  a  girl  screaming. 

Each  morning  with  her  early  tea  there  was  a  basket  of 
rare  flowers,  flowers  she  did  not  trouble  to  tell  Alice  to 
move  now;  she  put  them  down  to  some  palace  custom, 
nothing  that  had  any  bearing  on  the  Sultan.  She  never 
thought  of  Le  Breton's  words: 

"Still  only  a  few  flowers,  Pansy?" 

And  each  evening  she  sat  in  the  dim,  scented  room  and 
waited  for  those  muffled  screams.  She  knew  where  they 
came  from  now;  from  somewhere  behind  one  of  the  locked 
doors  leading  into  her  room. 

Limp  and  listless,  she  dragged  through  the  hot,  monot- 
onous days,  brooding  on  her  own  fate  and  her  father's, 
envying  the  ragged  black  crows  that  flew,  free,  like  bits  of 
burnt  paper,  high  in  the  scorching  sky. 

Pansy  had  been  about  a  fortnight  in  El-Ammeh,  when 
something  happened. 

One  morning,  as  she  stood  by  the  sunken  pond,  feeding 
the  greedy  carp  with  rolls  she  was  too  miserable  to  eat, 
Alice  came  to  her  round-eyed  and  startled-looking. 


192  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA 

"Oh,  Miss  Pansy,  dey  hab  come  for  you,"  she  gasped 

"Who?"  Pansy  asked  quickly. 

"De  Sultan's  soldiers." 

"Are  they  going  to  take  me  to  him?"  she  asked,  feeling 
the  interview  she  desired  and  dreaded  was  now  at  hand. 

"Dey  take  you  to  de  slave  market.  To  be  sold.  Oh. 
oh !"  the  girl  wailed. 

Alice's  hysterical  sobs  followed  Pansy  down  the  dim 
passage  some  minutes  later,  when,  with  strained  face  and 
tortured  eyes,  she  went  with  a  guard  of  eight  Arab  soldiers 
to  meet  the  fate  the  Sultan  Casim  Ammeh  had  promised 
for  her  more  than  sixteen  years  before. 


CHAPTEE  XI 

SIR  GEORGE  BARCLAY  and  most  of  his  staff  had  a  knowl- 
edge of  Eastern  prisons  from  the  outside.  They  knew  them 
to  be  abodes  of  misery;  dark,  insanitary  dens,  alive  with 
vermin,  squalid  and  filthy,  filled  with  a  gaunt,  ragged 
crowd  who,  all  day  long,  held  piteous  hands  through  iron 
bars,  begging  for  food  from  the  passers-by,  the  only  food 
they  were  given. 

The  Governor's  staff  did  not  look  forward  to  a  sojourn 
in  El-Ammeh.  As  for  Sir  George  himself,  he  had  other 
matters  than  his  own  personal  comfort  to  dwell  on. 

His  thoughts  were  always  with  Pansy,  and  always  in 
his  heart  was  the  prayer  that  she  would  succumb  to  the 
effects  of  Cameron's  bullet,  and  not  have  to  meet  the  fate 
his  enemy  had  in  store  for  her. 

After  the  one  interview  the  Sultan  had  ignored  Barclay. 
But  during  the  long  journey,  Sir  George  often  saw  his  enemy, 
and  if  he  thought  of  anything  outside  of  his  daughter's 
fate,  it  was  to  wonder  why  Casim  Ammeh  looked  so  different 
from  the  wild  hordes  he  ruled.  Exactly  like  a  man  of  the 
well-bred,  darker,  Latin  type,  certainly  not  the  son  of  the 
savage  marauder  whom  he,  Barclay,  had  had  to  condemn 
to  death. 

On  reaching  El-Ammeh,  the  Europeans  found  the  quarters 
awaiting  them  very  different  from  what  experience  had  led 
them  to  expect. 

They  were  ushered  into  a  large  courtyard  dotted  with 
trees  and  surrounded  by  high  walls.  Into  it  a  dozen  little 
cells  opened.  Within  the  enclosure  they  were  free  to  wander 
as  they  pleased;  a  glance  around  the  place  showed  them 
why.  The  walls  were  twenty  feet  high,  and  as  smooth  as 

193 


194  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAEA 

glass,  and  there  were  always  a  dozen  Arabs  stationed 
by  the  gate,  watching  all  they  did.  At  night  they  were 
each  locked  in  separate  cells. 

It  was  impossible  to  bribe  the  guards,  as  Cameron  and 
his  fellow  officers  discovered  before  a  week  had  passed. 

For  the  imprisoned  Englishmen  the  time  passed  slowly. 
Often  they  speculated  on  their  own  ultimate  fate.  Whether 
death  would  be  their  portion,  or  whether  they  would  be 
left  there  to  stew  for  years,  after  the  manner  of  more  than 
one  European  who  had  had  the  misfortune  to  fall  into  the 
clutches  of  some  desert  chief. 

They  all  knew  the  reason  of  their  capture — merely 
because  they  happened  to  be  on  the  Governor's  staff.  He 
had  told  them  the  story  of  Casim  Ammeh,  and  the  promised 
revenge.  They  never  thought  of  blaming  Barclay.  What 
the  present  Sultan  of  El-Ammeh  called  "murder"  was  the 
sort  of  thing  >any  one  of  them  might  be  called  upon 
to  do. 

A  day  came  when  it  seemed  to  Barclay  that  the  fate  that 
wild  youth  had  promised  him  long  years  ago  was  at 
hand. 

One  morning  an  escort  came  for  him. 

In  their  company  he  was  led  out  of  prison,  to  his  execu- 
tion, he  expected.  His  staff  thought  so  too;  for  they  took 
a  brief,  unemotional  farewell  of  him.  They  expected  the 
same  fate  themselves  at  any  moment. 

However,  Barclay  was  not  led  to  his  death.  The  escort 
took  him  through  a  twist  of  narrow  streets,  into  a  house 
and  up  a  flight  of  dark  stairs.  He  was  left  alone  in  an  upper 
room,  with  a  heavily  barred  window,  through  which  came 
a  hum  of  wild  voices,  with  an  occasional  loud,  guttural, 
excited  call. 

He  crossed  to  the  window,  and  stood  there,  riveted. 

There  was  a  big  square  beneath,  seething  with  dark- 
faced,  white-robed  men,  all  gazing  in  one  direction — in  the 
direction  of  a  raised  platform  where  a  girl  stood.  A  slim, 
white  girl. 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA  195 

It  would  have  been  much  easier  for  Sir  George  to  have 
faced  death  than  the  sight  before  him. 

Pansy  was  on  the  platform.  His  daughter!  Standing 
there  in  full  view  of  the  wild  crowd.  Being  sold  as  a  slave 
in  the  market  of  this  desert  city.  To  become  the  property 
of  one  of  those  savages. 

Barclay's  hand  went  across  his  anguished  face,  to  try 
and  shut  out  the  horrible  sight. 

It  could  not  be  true!  It  must  be  some  hideous  night- 
mare. 

Yet  there  she  was,  with  white  face  and  strained  eyes, 
meeting  her  fate  bravely,  as  his  daughter  would.  Pansy, 
as  he  had  often  seen  her,  in  a  simple  white  muslin  dress, 
and  a  wide  white,  drooping  hat  with  a  long,  blue,  floating 
veil.  Garbed  as  she  had  gone  about  his  camp  during  his 
fatal  tour. 

Even  as  Sir  George  looked,  Pansy's  tortured  eyes  met 
his,  and  she  tried  to  smile. 

The  sight  broke  him  utterly,  bringing  a  groan  to  his  lips. 

At  the  sound  a  voice  said  in  French,  with  a  note  of  savage 
triumph : 

"Now  perhaps  you  understand  what  I  suffered  when 
you  shot  my  father?" 

Standing  behind  him  was  a  big  man  in  a  khaki  riding- 
suit,  a  European,  he  looked.  For  the  moment  Barclay 
did  not  know  him  for  his  enemy,  the  Sultan  Casim 
Ammeh. 

When  he  recognised  him  he  did  for  Pansy  what  he  would 
never  have  done  for  himself — he  begged  for  mercy. 

"For  God's  sake,  for  the  sake  of  the  civilisation  you 
know,  don't  condemn  my  child  to  such  a  fate!"  he  en- 
treated in  a  voice  hoarse  with  agony. 

"You  showed  my  father  no  mercy.  Why  should  I  show 
you  any  now?"  the  Sultan  asked  coldly. 

"At  least  have  pity  on  the  girl.  Do  what  you  like  with 
me,  but  spare  my  daughter." 

"Did  you   show  me   any   pity   when   I   begged   for   my 


196  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA 

father's  life?  'As  ye  sow,  so  shall  ye  reap.'  Isn't  that 
what  you  Christians  say?  There  is  your  harvest.  A 
pleasing  sight  for  me,  when  I  think  of  my  father." 

The  Sultan's  gaze  went  to  the  window,  but  there  was 
more  tenderness  than  anything  else  in  his  eyes  as  they 
rested  on  the  slim  girl  who  faced  the  crowd  with  such  white 
courage. 

Now  one  figure  stood  out  from  the  surge,  that  of  a  big, 
lean  man  in  turban  and  loin-cloth,  with  long  matted  hair 
and  beard,  the  latter  foam-flecked.  He  stood  at  the  foot 
of  the  platform,  and  his  eyes  never  left  the  girl  as  he  bid 
up  and  up  against  the  other  competitors;  cursing  everyone 
who  bid  against  him,  yet  always  going  higher. 

"Look  at  that  wild  man  from  the  desert,"  the  Sultan 
said.  "I  know  him.  He  is  a  feather  merchant.  A  miser. 
His  home  is  a  squalid  tent,  yet  he  has  more  money  than 
any  man  who  comes  to  El-Ammeh.  Love  has  unlocked 
his  heart.  He  will  give  all  his  hoarded  wealth  to  possess 
that  pretty  slave  on  the  platform  there.  He  will  be  a  fitting 
mate  for  your  daughter.  Think  of  her  in  his  arms,  and 
remember  the  man  you  murdered — my  father,  the  Sultan 
Casim  Ammeh,  whom  I  have  now  avenged." 

At  the  taunts,  despite  the  difference  in  their  years  and 
physique,  George  Barclay  turned  on  his  tormentor. 

"You  brute !     You  devil !"  he  cried,  springing  at  him. 

With  easy  strength  the  Sultan  caught  and  held  him. 

"You  misjudge  me,"  he  said;  "it's  justice — merely  'An 
eye  for  an  eye,  and  a  tooth  for  a  tooth.' '; 

Then  he  pushed  the  older  man  from  him  and,  turning 
on  his  heel,  went  from  the  room. 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE  market  of  El-Ammeh  was  situated  in  the  centre  of  the 
city.  It  was  surrounded  by  a  huddle  of  whitewashed  houses, 
of  varying  heights  and  shapes,  leaning  one  against  the  other, 
with  here  and  there,  over  some  high  wall,  a  glimpse  of 
greenery — the  feathery  head  of  a  palm,  the  shiny  leaves  of 
a  camphor  tree,  a  pomegranate,  an  orange  or  a  fig  tree. 
On  the  side  overlooking  the  square  the  houses  were  prac- 
tically without  windows,  and  the  few  there  were  were  small 
and  iron-barred. 

Under  most  of  the  'buildings  were  dim,  cave-like  shops 
hung  with  rare  silks  and  ostrich  feathers,  or  littered  with 
articles  in  beaten  silver,  copper,  and  iron.  There  was 
quaint  leatherwork  and  coarse  pottery  and  a  good  sprink- 
ling of  European  goods. 

Several  narrow,  passage-like  streets  led  into  the  square, 
entering  it,  in  some  cases,  under  dark  archways.  Some- 
times these  ways  were  barred  to  the  mere  public — the  poorer 
people  who  daily  sold  produce  in  the  square — and  only  those 
with  special  permits  were  allowed  to  enter:  men  of  wealth 
and  substance. 

Every  month  a  sale  of  slaves  was  held  in  the  market, 
generally  of  Arab  and  negro  girls;  but  occasionally  some- 
thing very  different  figured  there — perhaps  some  black- 
haired,  black-eyed,  creamy  beauty  brought  right  across  the 
Sahara  from  the  Barbary  States,  a  thousand  miles  away; 
or  some  half-caste  girl  from  the  Soudan,  even  further 
afield. 

When  this  happened  there  were  always  plenty  of  buyers. 
Men  of  wealth  flocked  in  from  hundreds  of  miles  around, 
for  any  skin  lighter  than  brown  was  a  rarity. 

197 


198  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAEA 

Within  the  last  few  weeks  word  had  gone  round  the 
district,  blown  hither  and  thither  in  the  desert,  that  a  girl 
even  more  beautiful  than  those  creamy  beauties  from  the 
Barbary  States  was  to  be  on  sale  at  the  next  auction — a  girl 
hailing  from,  Allah  alone  knew,  what  far  land — Paradise,  if 
her  description  were  a  true  one.  A  girl  with  a  skin  white 
as  milk,  hair  golden  as  the  sunshine,  and  eyes  of  a  blue 
deep  as  desert  night;  a  maid,  moreover,  not  another  man's 
discarded  fancy. 

For  days  before  the  sale,  as  flies  are  drawn  towards  a 
honey-pot,  the  caravans  of  wealthy  merchants  came  trick- 
ling in  from  the  desert. 

When  the  day  itself  arrived  they  hurried  with  their 
retinues  to  the  square;  some  to  buy,  if  possible;  others, 
less  wealthy,  to  see  if  the  maid  were  as  beautiful  as  report 
said. 

On  one  side  of  the  market  square  was  a  raised  platform. 
From  the  house  behind  a  room  opened  on  it,  a  big,  shadowy 
room,  whitewashed  and  stone-flagged,  with  a  barred  window 
high  up  near  the  ceiling. 

Into  that  room  Pansy  was  taken  by  her  escort  in  a  cur- 
tained litter. 

During  the  journey  to  the  market  she  had  had  the  sen- 
sation of  moving  in  some  ghastly  nightmare  from  which 
she  could  not  wake  herself,  much  as  she  tried. 

It  could  not  be  possible  that  she,  Pansy  Langham,  the 
ieted  and  much-courted  heiress,  was  to  be  sold  as  one  might 
sell  a  horse  or  a  cow. 

She  had  the  horrible  feeling  of  having  lost  her  own 
identity  and  taken  on  someone  else's,  yet  all  the  time 
remembering  what  had  happened  when  she  was  Pansy 
Langham.  She  felt  she  must  have  slipped  back  hundreds 
of  years  to  some  previous  existence,  when  girls  were  sold  as 
slaves;  for  surely  this  appalling  fate  could  not  be  happen- 
ing to  her  in  the  twentieth  century? 

A  riot  of  thought  ran  through  the  girl's  head  during  the 
•journey  from  the  palace  to  the  market;  a  riot  of  numb, 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA  199 

sickly  terror,  the  outstanding  feature  of  which  was  an  in- 
ability to  credit  the  fate  before  her. 

When  Pansy  reached  the  room  she  gave  up  all  hope.  She 
knew  she  was  awake — painfully,  horribly  wide  awake,  with  a 
future  before  her  that  made  her  shudder  to  contemplate. 

There  were  a  dozen  or  more  girls  in  the  room,  but  they 
were  railed  off  from  Pansy  by  a  thick  wooden  trellis,  like 
sheep  in  a  pen;  brown  and  black  girls,  the  majority  attired 
in  nothing  more  than  a  cloth  reaching  from  waist  to  knee. 
They  had  been  chattering  shrilly  among  themselves  at  her 
entry,  apparently  in  no  way  appalled  at  the  fate  before 
them;  but  they  broke  off  when  she  came  in,  and  crowded 
to  the  lattice  to  get  a  closer  view,  gazing  at  the  newcomer 
and  giving  vent  to  little  exclamations  of  awe  and  envy 
and  admiration. 

Pansy's  arrival  brought  a  stout,  bearded  man  in  white 
burnoose  in  from  the  house  behind. 

His  glance  ran  over  the  English  girl,  but  he  made  no 
attempt  to  touch  her.  Then  he  looked  at  her  escort,  who 
had  stationed  themselves  on  either  side  of  her. 

"By  Allah!"  he  exclaimed.  "This  is  a  houri  straight 
from  Paradise  you  have  brought  me.  Never  have  I  sold 
such  loveliness.  There  will  be  high  bidding  in  the  market 
of  El-Ammeh  this  morning." 

"I,  for  one,  can't  understand  why  the  Sultan  has  not 
kept  this  pearl  for  himself,"  the  leader  of  the  escort  said. 

The  auctioneer  smiled  in  a  peculiar,  knowing  fashion. 

"Our  Sultan  has  been  in  lands  where  there  are  many 
such,"  he  replied.  "Now  he  gives  his  subjects  a  chance  to 
revel  in  delights  that  have  been  his." 

Other  men  appeared  from  behind,  negroes. 

At  a  word  from  their  master  they  opened  the  door  lead- 
ing out  on  the  platform.  Then  they  stood  on  either  side 
whilst  he  passed  through. 

Through  the  open  door  came  a  blaze  of  sunshine,  the  buzz 
of  a  multitude,  and  presently  a  long  declamation  in  Arabic 
«.  as  the  auctioneer  enlarged  upon  the  quality  of  his  wares. 


200  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA 

The  girls  behind  the  trellis  craned  their  necks  to  see  what 
was  going  on,  chattering  shrilly  among  themselves. 

From  where  Pansy  stood  she  could  see  nothing.  She  did 
not  want  to  see  anything.  The  horror  would  be  upon  her 
quite  soon  enough. 

One  of  the  negro  assistants  opened  a  gate  in  the  trellis 
and  motioned  to  a  girl.  As  she  appeared  on  the  platform, 
from  outside  there  came  a  sigh  of  disappointment,  then 
guttural  voices  bidding. 

Another  and  another  of  the  girls  passed  out,  all  appar- 
ently indifferent  to  the  ordeal  before  them. 

Then  the  auctioneer  appeared  on  the  threshold. 

On  seeing  him  Pansy  felt  her  turn  had  come,  and  the 
world  started  reeling  around  her. 

She  knew  she  passed  from  shadow  into  sunshine,  that 
dead  silence  greeted  her  appearance  on  the  dais — a  silence 
that  was  followed  by  a  din  of  wild,  excited  shouting. 

It  seemed  to  her  that  the  world  was  nothing  but  eyes: 
the  eyes  of  a  surging  crowd  of  dark-faced  men,  watching 
her  with  desire  and  admiration. 

To  Pansy,  high-bred  and  fastidious,  it  was  a  vision  of 
hell,  this  swarm  of  wild  men  looking  at  her  with  covetous 
desire.  The  Pit  gaped  at  her  feet,  peopled  with  demons, 
any  one  of  which  might  spring  upon  her. 

Then  the  din  died  down  to  a  subdued  hum  as  men  whis- 
pered one  to  another,  their  eyes  still  on  the  golden-haired 
girl  on  the  dais.  There  was  a  horrible  sort  of  despair  on 
the  faces  of  some  as  they  thought  of  their  more  wealthy 
neighbours;  lustful  triumph  on  the  faces  of  others  as  they 
thought  of  their  own  hoarded  gold. 

Then  out  from  the  crowd  a  voice  made  an  offer. 

The  sum  staggered  the  auctioneer.  It  equalled  nearly 
five  hundred  pounds  of  English  money.  No  girl,  even  the 
creamy  Barbary  beauties,  had  ever  fetched  that  amount. 

Wild  commotion  followed.  But  the  price  went  up  and 
up,  doubling  itself  in  ten  minutes. 


3 
rt 
H 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAEA  201 

To  escape  for  a  moment  from  the  sea  of  covetous  eyes, 
Pansy  raised  her  own. 

There  was  someone  watching  her  from  a  window,  someone 
who  looked  as  tortured  as  herself — another  soul  condemned  to 
hell. 

It  was  a  moment  hefore  she  recognised  that  drawn, 
haggard  face  as  her  fathers;  it  looked  an  old  man's.  He 
was  there,  the  father  she  loved,  condemned  by  his  enemy 
to  see  her  sold. 

She  tried  to  smile.  It  was  a  woeful  effort.  And  when 
the  blur  of  tears  that  seeing  him  brought  to  her  eyes  had 
passed  he  was  gone. 

It  seemed  to  Pansy  that  for  an  eternity  she  stood  on  the 
edge  of  the  Pit,  waiting  until  one  of  the  devils,  more  power- 
ful than  the  rest,  should  drag  her  in. 

The  din  died  down  as  the  sale  proceeded,  lost  in  tense 
excitement.  Of  the  twenty  or  more  who  had  started 
bidding  for  her,  only  three  were  left  now.  One  of  them, 
mad  with  lust  and  excitement,  had  forced  his  way  up  to 
the  edge  of  the  dais  and  was  clinging  to  it  with  grimy 
hands — a  lean  man  in  turban  and  loin-cloth  only,  with  long 
matted  hair  and  beard,  who,  foaming  at  the  mouth,  was 
cursing  his  competitors,  yet  always  bidding  higher  as  he 
stared  at  Pansy  with  the  glare  of  a  maddened  beast. 

Pansy  tried  not  to  see  him,  but  he  was  always  there, 
horrible  beyond  comprehension,  the  worst  of  the  demons 
in  the  hell  surrounding  her. 

Presently,  over  the  murmur  of  the  crowd,  came  the 
thunder  of  a  horse's  hoofs;  of  someone  riding  at  breakneck 
speed  through  one  of  the  resounding  arches  leading  into 
the  market. 

Pansy  did  not  notice  this.  She  realised  nothing  now  but 
the  half-naked,  foaming  horror  at  her  feet. 

Suddenly  another  cry  rang  through  the  market-place. 

Fortunately  for  Le  Breton's  plans  Pansy  knew  no  Arabic 
or  she  would  have  recognised  that  cry  as: 


202  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAEA 

"The  Sultan!     The  Sultan!" 

For  Casirn  Ammeh  had  had  his  vengeance,  and  now  had 
eome  in  pursuit  of  love. 

The  cry  grew  to  such  a  roar  of  sound  that  it  penetrated 
the  world  of  dumb  terror  in  which  Pansy  moved,  and  made 
her  raise  her  eyes. 

The  crowd  in  the  square  had  opened  up,  giving  way  to  a 
khaki-clad  man  on  a  huge,  prancing  black  stallion. 

Across  the  market-place  tortured  blue  eyes  met  fie-y 
black  ones. 

Then  it  seemed  to  Pansy  that  she  must  be  dreaming — a 
vision  of  heaven  beyond  this  hell. 

For  Eaoul  Le  Breton  was  there,  a  god  among  these 
demons.  Some  figment  of  her  own  creating  that  must 
vanish  as  she  gazed. 

But  he  did  not  vanish. 

He  came  closer,  straight  towards  her,,  the  crowd  receding 
like  a  wave  before  him.  Kaoul  Le  Breton,  looking  more 
handsome,  more  arrogant,  more  of  a  king  than  ever;  sit- 
ting his  black  horse  like  a  centaur. 

Pansy's  hands  went  to  her  heart,  and  the  world  started 
spinning  around  her. 

Like  a  knight  of  old,  he  had  come  to  her  rescue. 

How  he  could  have  got  there  she  was  in  no  condition  to 
consider.  It  was  enough  that  he  was  there,  in  time  to  save 
her  from  the  Pit  of  Hell  gaping  at  her  feet. 

He  rode  ride  up  to  the  dais,  reining  in  at  her  side. 

With  outstretched  arms,  he  went  towards  her. 

"Come,  Heart's  Ease,  my  own  brave  little  girl,  there's 
nothing  to  fear  now/'  he  said. 

Swaying  slightly,  Pansy  looked  at  him  again  as  if  he 
were  some  vision. 

Then,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  she  fainted. 

V/ith  a  little  laugh  of  tender  triumph,  he  caught  her  and 
lifted  her  on  his  horse. 

As  he  turned  to  go,  grimy,  covetous  hands  clutched 
Pansy's  skirts — the  hands  of  the  miser  feather  merchant. 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA  203 

With  a  savage  oath,  the  Sultan  raised  his  heavy  riding 
whip  and  felled  the  defiler. 

Then  he  rode  off  with  Pansy. 

But  before  this  happened  Sir  George  Barclay  had  been 
taken  from  the  room  overlooking  the  slave  market.  He 
did  not  see  the  Sultan  Casim  Ammeh  come  in  person  to 
save  the  girl.  He  did  not  know  that,  in  Pansy's  case,  at 
any  rate,  the  auction  had  been  but  a  pretence. 


CHAPTEE  XIII 

WHEN  Pansy  returned  to  consciousness  she  felt  she  had 
awakened  from  some  nightmare  and  was  back  in  her  own 
world,  a  civilized  world;  her  capture  by  the  Sultan  Casim 
Ammeh  and  all  the  subsequent  happenings  some  wild 
dream,  terrifying  in  its  reality  as  dreams  can  be. 

She  was  lying  on  a  big  bed  in  a  shady  room,  among  sheets 
and  pillows  of  finest  linen;  a  solid  brass  bedstead  such  as 
might  have  come  from  any  good  shop  in  London,  not  among 
silken  cushions  and  rugs  on  an  ottoman.  And  there  was  a 
bedroom  suite  of  some  choice  grey  wood  with  a  litter  of 
gold  toilet  appointments  on  the  wide  dressing-table. 

An  elderly  woman,  brown  skinned  and  black  eyed,  dressed 
in  a  swathing  of  white  muslin,  was  seated  by  the  bedside, 
fanning  herself  with  a  gentle,  regular  movement,  and  the  air 
was  fresh  with  the  scent  of  eau-de-Cologne. 

Beyond  the  woman — all  down  one  side  of  the  room — ran 
a  series  of  arches,  over  which  were  drawn  blinds  of  split 
bamboo. 

With  the  feeling  of  fragments  of  her  nightmare  still  cling- 
ing about  her,  Pansy  sat  up. 

Then,  with  a  rush,  came  back  the  scene  in  the  slave 
market. 

"Where  is  Mr.  Le  Breton?''  she  asked  in  a  dazed  manner. 

She  expected  the  woman  to  disclaim  all  knowledge  of  any 
such  person. 

However,  she  rose  immediately. 

"I'll  fetch  him,"  she  said  in  French. 

She  made  towards  a  curtained  doorway. 

Pansy  watched  her  go.  And  her  gaze  stayed  anxiously 
on  the  spot  where  the  woman  had  disappeared. 

A  few  moments  passed  and  the  curtains  were  drawn  aside 

204 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHABA  205 

again.  The  woman  entered.  In  her  wake  was  a  big  man 
in  white  drill,  with  sleek,  black  hair  and  a  close-clipped, 
black  moustache. 

On  seeing  him  Pansy  gave  a  little  hysterical  cry. 

"Oh,  Eaoul,  I  was  so  afraid  you  were  just  a  dream !" 

"No,  I'm  not  a  dream,  but  a  solid  fact,"  he  replied,  going 
towards  her. 

"Come  quite  close.     I  want  to  touch  you  to  make  sure." 

Nothing  loath,  he  seated  himself  on  the  bed. 

Pansy  took  one  of  his  hands,  holding  it  in  a  tight,  nervous 
grip. 

"Yes,  it  is  really  you,"  she  said.  "I  n  the  whole  wide  world 
there's  no  one  who  feels  quite  the  same  as  you." 

She  had  forgotten  his  coldness  and  harshness  on  the 
occasion  of  their  last  meeting  in  Grand  Canary — his  colour, 
his  religion,  everything  except  that  he  was  there  and  she 
was  safe. 

He  laughed  tenderly  and  put  the  loose  curls  back  from 
her  face  with  a  lingering,  caressing  touch. 

It  was  Pansy  as  he  had  never  known  her,  frightened  and 
clinging  to  him.  Pansy  as  he  would  have  her,  looking  at 
him  with  eyes  full  of  love. 

"So,  little  girl,  you're  quite  pleased  to  see  me?" 

"Did  you  buy  me?"  she  asked  in  a  bewildered  voice. 

"How  else  could  I  get  you?"  he  asked,  smiling  slightly. 
His  voice  and  touch  calmed  her  a  little. 

"But  you!    How  did  you  get  here?"  she  asked. 

"You  know  I'm  an  African  merchant,  don't  you?"  he 
said  easily.  "This  is  my  special  province.  I  do  most  of 
the  trading  in  this  part.  And  El-Ammeh  is  my,  head- 
quarters." 

"But  how  did  you  know  I  was  here  ?"  she  asked  in  a  dazed 
tone. 

"You  told  me  you  were  coming  out  to  Africa.  I  heard 
the  Governor  of  the  adjacent  English  colony  was  on  tour, 
his  ultimate  point  a  spot  some  six  hundred  miles  or  so  from 
here.  Some  weeks  ago  the  Sultan  went  out  on  a  foray, 


206  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA 

returning  with  some  English  prisoners,  a  girl  among  them. 
There  are  not  many  blue-eyed,  golden-haired  girls  in  these 
parts,  Pansy,  so  I  guessed  who  she  was/' 

It  all  sounded  very  feasible.  And  Pansy  was  in  no  mood 
to  dispute  with  miracles. 

"He  hates  my  father;  that's  why  he  did  it,"  she  began 
in  a  weak,  wild  way. 

"Never  mind  about  that  just  now,"  he  replied.  "Fortu- 
nately I  was  there  to  save  you." 

She  clung  tighter  to  the  strong,  sinewy  hand  that  had 
snatched  her  back  from  the  brink  of  hell. 

"Oh,  Raoul,  what  would  have  happened  if  you  hadn't 
come?"  she  whispered. 

"Well,  I  did  come,  so  there's  nothing  more  for  you  to 
worry  about,"  he  said  tenderly. 

"There's  my  father.  The  Sultan  has  threatened  to  kill 
him,"  she  began  hysterically. 

"You  mustn't  worry  about  your  father,  either.  Leave 
things  to  me.  You  may  be  sure  I'll  do  my  best  for  him, 
too." 

Under  the  tension  of  the  last  few  weeks  and  the  final 
reaction  Pansy  broke  down  completely.  In  a  weak,  wild 
manner  she  started  sobbing,  almost  as  if  her  brain  had 
snapped  under  the  strain  and  relief. 

Evidently  Le  Breton  had  expected  something  of  the  sort. 
Going  to   a    table,   he   poured   some   water   into   a  glass 
and  dropped  a  couple  of  cachets  into  it. 

When  they  had  melted  he  came  back  to  the  distraught 
girl. 

Seating  himself  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  he  slipped  an 
arm  around  her. 

"Come,  drink  this  up,"  he  said  authoritatively;  "then, 
when  you've  had  a  good  sleep,  you  can  tell  me  all  your  adven- 
tures." 

"I  daren't  go  to  sleep,"  she  sobbed,  "for  fear  I  should 
wake  up  in  hell!" 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAEA  207 

He  drew  the  golden  head  on  his  shoulder  with  a  soothing, 
protective  touch. 

"I'll  stay  with  you  and  see  that  doesn't  happen,"  he  said 
tenderly. 

At  the  promise,  Pansy  drank  the  proffered  draught.  Then 
she  lay  back  among  the  pillows. 

He  held  the  empty  glass  towards  the  Arab  woman.  She 
took  it,  and  would  have  gone  from  the  room,  as  she  was 
accustomed  to  going  when  the  Sultan  pleased  to  linger  with 
any  one  of  his  slave  girls;  but  his  voice  stopped  her. 

"There's  no  need  to  go,  Sara,"  he  said. 

Then  he  stayed,  smiling  down  at  the  worn  little  face  on 
the  pillows,  until  the  wild  blue  eyes  closed  in  drugged 
slumber. 

Afterwards  he  sat  watching  Pansy  in  a  calculating 
manner. 

Just  then  it  seemed  to  Le  Breton  that  his  plans  had  suc- 
ceeded; that  he  was  going  to  have  all  he  wanted.  Revenge 
he  had  had;  love  now  seemed  within  his  grip. 

A  sense  of  gratitude  for  her  supposed  rescue,  in  conjunc- 
tion with  the  love  Pansy  still  had  for  him,  would  be  a 
strong  enough  combination  to  make  her  forget  his  colour 
and  bring  her  into  his  arms  in  the  way  he  wanted — of  her 
own  free  will. 

Yet  he  was  not  wholly  satisfied,  for  the  method  he  had 
used  to  attain  his  ends  was  not  one  a  civilised  person  would 
approve  of. 

A  huddled  heap  against  one  of  the  fluted  columns,  old 
Sara  sat  and  watched  him.  From  time  to  time  she  muttered 
to  herself  and  cracked  her  knuckles  for  luck  and  to  keep 
off  the  "evil  eye." 

She  had  seen  another  Sultan  bewitched  by  one  of  these 
lovely  white  girls;  and  she  hoped  that  this  girl  would  prove 
kinder  to  the  son  than  the  Lady  Annette  b**i  been  to  ths 
father. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

GREAT  stars  flashed  in  a  desert  sky,  a  sky  deep  and  soft, 
like  purple  velvet.  They  looked  down  on  a  sea  of  sand 
over  which  the  wind  roamed;  and  always  and  ever  in  its 
train  there  followed  a  sighing  hiss,  sometimes  loud,  some- 
times soft,  but  always  there,  a  constant,  stealthy  menace 
in  the  night. 

In  the  dark  depths,  one  great  curling  billow  of  sand 
showed,  the  coarse  grass  that  fringed  its  crest  looking  like 
spray  lashing  through  the  night.  Beneath,  a  little  yellow 
fire  glowed.  In  the  glimmer  a  few  ragged  tents  stood, 
patched  and  squalid  dwellings.  Among  them  mangy  camels 
lay  and  groaned  and  gurgled  and  snored,  with  their  long 
necks  stretched  along  the  sand,  looking  like  prehistoric 
beasts. 

Here  and  there  half-naked  men  and  boys  slept  and  gaunt 
dogs  prowled — slinking,  furtive  shadows  through  the  en- 
campment, nosing  about  for  scraps  of  the  evening  meal. 

There  had  been  no  meal  for  the  owner  of  the  caravan 
that  night.  A  hunger  that  could  not  be  assuaged  with 
food,  and  a  thirst  that  no  drink  could  quench,  raged  within 
him.  Now  a  burning  lust  kept  sleep  at  bay  and  sent  him 
prowling  like  some  wild  beast  into  the  desert,  hoping  that 
there  relief  might  be  found. 

But  for  him  none  was  to  be  had  there. 

The  blue  of  the  sky  was  like  the  eyes  of  the  girl  he  had 
lost.  Her  skin  had  rivalled  the  stars  in  its  purity.  The 
very  fire  that  burnt  outside  of  his  squalid  home  mocked 
him.  It  was  golden  as  her  hair. 

But  for  the  Sultan  that  girl  would  be  his.  Now!  This 
night.  His,  to  hold  within  his  arms — that  milk-white  maid ! 

208 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA  209 

He  flung  his  arms  out  to  the  night,  then  strained  them 
across  his  chest. 

But  for  the  Sultan  all  that  maddening  beauty  would  lie 
within  his  grip.  His  to  crush  and  caress.  His! 

The  thought  was  torture. 

"Curse  him!  Curse  him!  Curse  him!"  he  cried  aloud 
to  the  mocking  night. 

Then  he  stretched  grimy  paws  towards  a  voiceless  heaven. 

"Allah,  give  him  into  my  hands,  the  Sultan  Casim 
Ammeh,  who  has  robbed  me  of  the  flower  of  my  desire. 
That  milk-white  maid — a  houri  of  thy  sending.  Guide  my 
step  to  those  who  are  his  enemies.  To  those  who  would 
break  him,  as  he  has  broken  me.  Surely  a  man  so  mighty 
has  others  as  mighty  who  hate  him.  There  are  always 
kings  ready  to  make  war  on  other  kings.  Allah,  mogt  high, 
let  me  find  them.  Allah,  most  merciful,  grant  my  prayer. 
•Like  the  wind  in  the  desert  I  will  roam — to  the  east,  the 
west,  the  north,  the  south — until  I  find  them. — His  en- 
emies. Then  I  will  deliver  him  unto  their  hands." 

The  mad  prayer  of  a  wandering  feather  merchant  against 
his  Sultan;  the  prayer  of  a  man  whom,  in  his  wealth  and 
power  and  arrogance,  Casim  Ammeh  had  not  considered. 

But  one  which  was  to  bear  fruit. 


CHAPTEE  XV 

GIVING  no  thought  to  the  grimy  wretch  out  there  in  the 
desert,  the  Sultan  was  seated  in  one  of  the  deep,  open  gal- 
leries of  his  palace.  Some  ten  feet  below  a  garden  sighed, 
and  the  soft  wind  that  wandered  in  and  out  of  the  fretted 
arches  was  ladened  with  the  scent  of  a  thousand  flowers. 
Close  at  hand  a  fountain  whispered,  and  from  the  distance 
came  the  gentle  lap  of  the  lake. 

However,  he  noticed  none  of  these  things.  There  was 
something  of  far  greater  interest  close  beside  him. 

Among  the  cushions  of  a  wicker  lounge  Pansy  lay,  her 
head  pillowed  on  silk  and  down,  a  worn  look  still  on  her 
face. 

Night  had  fallen  before  she  awoke  from  her  drugged 
slumber.  She  had  found  Le  Breton  still  beside  her,  and 
the  room  full  of  the  soft  glow  of  shaded  lamps. 

Once  she  was  fully  awake  he  had  left,  promising  to  come 
again  after  dinner. 

She  had  dined  in  the  gallery.  The  roofed  terrace  was 
lighted  by  the  glow  coming  from  the  two  rooms  behind. 
One  was  her  bedroom;  the  other  a  gorgeously  appointed 
salon.  But  at  the  end  of  these  two  rooms  an  iron  grille 
went  across  the  gallery,  stopping  all  further  investigations. 

When  Le  Breton  came  he  found  Pansy  on  the  terrace. 
Once  he  was  seated,  she  told  him  what  had  happened  to 
her  father's  party.  Then  she  went  back  to  the  beginning, 
sixteen  years  before,  with  the  story  of  the  youthful  Sultan; 
but  she  did  not  mention  that  she  had  been  wounded  and 
ill,  for  fear  of  having  to  meet  a  host  of  anxious  enquiries. 

Without  comment  he  listened. 

When  she  finished,  all  he  said  was: 

"Well,  I  suppose  the  Sultan  has  his  point  of  view,  since 

210 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA  211 

it  appears  your  father  was  responsible  for  the  death  of  his." 

"But  it  was  my  father's  duty  to  condemn  him.  He 
would  hate  doing  it,  for  he  can't  hear  to  hurt  people.  It 
was  not  'murder/  as  the  present  Sultan  seems  to  think." 

To  this  Le  Breton  had  nothing  to  say. 

*You  must  let  the  French  Government  know  my  father 
is  a  prisoner  here,"  she  went  on.  "Then  they'll  send  an 
expedition  and  rescue  him  and  his  officers." 

"I  couldn't  do  that,  Pansy.  You  forget  I'm  half  Arab. 
I  can't  go  back  on  my  father's  people." 

Pansy  had  forgotten  this  fact  about  him;  and  it  seemed 
her  father's  freedom  was  not  quite  so  close  at  hand  as  she 
had  imagined. 

"Could  I  send  my  father  a  note?"  she  asked  anxiously. 
"That  cruel  Sultan  sent  him  to  see  me  sold.  It  must  have 
been  torture  for  him;  for  I'm  all  he's  got,  and  he's  awfully 
fond  of  me.  I  want  to  say  I'm  safe  here  with  you.  I  can't 
bear  to  think  of  him  in  torment." 

"Write  a  note  if  you  like,  and  I'll  see  what  I  can  do,"  he 
replied. 

At  once  she  got  up  and  went  into  the  salon  where  she 
liad  noticed  a  writing-table.  The  place  was  more  like  a 
hall  than  a  room;  a  spreading  columned  apartment,  with 
walls  and  floor  and  ceiling  of  white  marble,  where  fountains 
played  into  fern-grown  basins  and  palms  stood  in  huge, 
gilded  tubs.  There  were  deep,  soft,  silk-covered  chairs  and 
lounges,  a  sprinkling  of  gilded  tables,  and  a  large  grand 
piano. 

Some  minutes  later  Pansy  returned  to  her  host  with  a 
letter  in  her  hand. 

He  took  it,  and  then  rose  to  go. 

"You  mustn't  sit  up  too  late,"  he  said,  looking  down  at 
her  with  an  air  of  possession;  "you've  had  a  trying  day, 
and  don't  worry  any  more  about  anything  or  anybody." 

So  saying,  he  left  her. 

Full  of  gratitude,  Pansy  watched  him  go.  And  her  con- 
science smote  her. 


212  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA 

On  the  whole  she  had  treated  him  rather  badly.  She  'had 
promised  to  marry  him,  and  then  had  gone  back  on  her 
word.  She  did  not  deserve  his  kindness  and  consideration. 

He  had  been  so  cold  and  harsh  that  night  on  her  yacht 
in  Grand  Canary.  He  was  none  of  these  things  now.  He 
was  just  as  he  had  been  during  their  one  brief  week  of 
friendship,  but  even  nicer. 

Pansy  sighed,  and  her  face  grew  wistful. 

Why  wasn't  he  just  like  other  men?  Why  had  Fate  been 
so  unkind  ?  Giving  her  love,  but  in  such  a  form  that  pride 
revolted  from  taking  it. 

Then  Pansy  went  to  bed,  to  lie  awake  for  some  time, 
brooding  on  the  miracle  the  day  had  brought  forth  and  the 
black  barrier  that  stood  between  her  and  her  lover. 

She  was  about  early  the  next  morning  and  wandering  in 
the  garden. 

It  was  a  long  stretch  of  shady  walks  and  sunken  po&ds 
and  splashing  fountains,  full  of  tropical  tree?,  scented 
shrubs,  and  rare  blossoms — a  tangle  of  delights.  In  one 
spot  she  found  a  tennis  court,  walled  with  pink  roses.  The 
grounds  went  on,  ending  in  a  wide,  flagged  terrace,  with 
stone  seats  and  shallow  steps  leading  down  to  the  blue  waters 
of  the  lake. 

High  walls  ran  down  either  side  of  the  spreading  garden. 
Behind,  a  huge  building  rose  in  domes  and  turrets  and 
terraces — the  palace  of  El-Ammeh  had  Pansy  but  known 
it,  of  which  her  new  quarters  were  but  a  further  portion. 

Blissfully  ignorant  of  this  fact,  she  turned  her  steps 
from  the  rippling  lake  and  wandered  along  a  flower-decked 
path  that  twisted  under  shady  trees  and  creeper-grown 
arches,  coming  presently  to  a  locked  iron  gate  let  into  the 
massive  walls. 

It  gave  a  view  of  a  scorched  paddock  where  a  dozen  er 
more  horses  were  browsing. 

Pansy  paused  and  scanned  the  animals. 

One  was  strangely  familiar. 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAEA  213 

That  gaunt  chestnut  browsing  there  could  only  be  "The 
Sultan" ! 

Amazed  at  her  discovery,  she  called  the  horse  by  name. 

At  once  the  brown  head  was  up,  and  the  beast  came 
galloping  in  her  direction. 

Even  in  the  days  of  her  illness  and  during  her  imprison- 
ment in  the  palace,  Pansy  had  spared  a  thought  for  her 
protege.  She  imagined  he  had  become  the  property  of 
one  of  the  Arab  raiders,  and  she  hoped  his  new  master 
would  be  kind  to  him  and  understand  him  as  she  did. 

Through  the  iron  bars  Pansy  caressed  her  pet. 

"I  never  expected  to  see  you  again,  Sultan,  old  boy," 
she  said.  "Raoul  must  have  bought  you,  too." 

She  was  standing  there  talking  to  and  petting  the  animal 
when  Le  Breton's  step  roused  her. 

"Are  you  pleased  to  see  him  again?"  he  asked,  after 
greeting  her. 

"Pleased  isn't  the  word  for  it.  But  how  did  you  manage 
to  get  hold  of  him?" 

"He  was  really  the  cause  of  my  getting  hold  of  you," 
he  replied  without  hesitation.  "I  saw  him  in  the  posses- 
sion of  one  of  the  soldiers  who  had  come  back  from  that 
foray.  That  made  me  doubly  certain  who  the  white  girl 
was  whom  the  Sultan  was  going  to  put  up  for  sale." 

"Eaoul,  you  must  let  me  give  you  back  all  you  had  to 
pay  for  me,"  she  said. 

"Why  should  you?"  he  asked,  a  slight  smile  hovering 
about  his  lips.  "You  saved  my  life.  Now  we're  'quits/ 
Isn't  that  what  you  called  it  ?" 

Pansy  did  not  argue  the  point.  Nevertheless,  she  deter- 
mined to  repay  him  once  she  and  her  father  were  back  in 
civilisation. 

"How  long  will  it  take  to  get  my  father  free?"  she 
asked. 

"It  all  depends  on  the  sort  of  mood  I  c^tch  the  Sultan 
in.  With  the  best  of  luck,  it'll  be  some  weeks." 


214  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAEA 

"Has  he  got  my  note  yet,  do  you  think?"  she  asked 
anxiously.  "He'll  go  grey  with  worrying  over  me.  I  can't 
bear  to  think  of  the  look  on  his  face  when  he  saw  me  in 
that  .  .  .  that  awful  slave  market." 

Le  Breton  had  destroyed  her  message  the  moment  he 
had  reached  his  own  rooms.  Now  he  could  not  meet  the 
beautiful  eyes  that  looked  at  him  with  such  perfect  trust. 

"I  expect  the  message  will  get  through  before  the  day 
is  out/'  he  answered.  "It's  merely  a  matter  of  'bak- 
sheesh/ " 

At  his  words  the  world  became  quite  a  nice  place  again 
for  Pansy,  the  only  shadow  in  it  now  the  dark  blood  in  her 
lover. 


CHAPTEE  XVI 

NIGHT  filled  the  harem  with  shadows  and  scent.  The  silver 
lamps  cast  a  soft  glow  through  the  huge  hall,  glinting  on 
wide  ottomans  and  piles  of  cushions,  on  little  tables  set 
with  coffee  and  sherbet,  sweets  and  fruit  and  cigarettes. 

There  were  perhaps  thirty  women  in  the  great  room, 
but  the  majority  of  them  were  the  attendants  of  the  half- 
dozen  girls  lolling  on  couches  and  cushions  around  the 
splashing  fountain. 

Full  length  on  a  wide  ottoman  Leonora  was  stretched, 
her  dark  eyes  fixed  spitefully  on  an  adjacent  lounge  where 
the  Arab  girl  lay,  her  face  hidden  in  the  cushions, 
her  golden  form  almost  buried  in  Iher  wealth  of  black 
hair. 

"See,  Eayma,  it's  night  again,"  Leonora  said,  malice 
in  her  soft,  drawling  voice.  "Night!  And  still  our  lord 
Casim  has  not  come  to  visit  you." 

There  was  a  sob  from  the  other  girl,  but  no  reply. 

"How  you  jeered  at  me,  Eayma,  when  you  stole  his 
heart  from  me/'  Leonora  went  on.  "But  now  it  seems 
another  has  stolen  his  heart  from  you,  since  he  no  longer 
comes  to  see  you.  Another  whom  I  shall  welcome  as  a 
sister." 

At  the  taunt  Eayma  sat  up  suddenly,  with  a  wild  gesture 
pushing  the  mass  of  black  hair  back  from  her  face. 

"For  weeks  and  weeks  he  has  not  been  here,"  she  wailed. 
"Oh,  my  heart  it  breaks  for  love  of  him." 

Leonora  laughed,  but  an  elderly  woman  sitting  near 
laid  a  soothing  hand  on  the  distraught  girl. 

"Hush,  Eayma,  my  pearl,"  she  said.  "Haven't  I  often 
told  you  our  Sultan  has  had  thoughts  for  nothing  but 
vengeance  of  late?" 

215 


216  A  SON  OP  THE  SAHARA 

"Would  vengeance  keep  him  away  from  me  all  these 
weeks?  It's  more  than  vengeance.  Ifs  love.  Love  for 
some  other  girl." 

Eayma  clutched  at  the  woman  with  slim,  jewelled 
hands. 

"Tell  me,  Sara,  you  come  and  go  at  will  through  the 
palace.  Is  there  one?" 

"My  pearl,  if  there  was  one,  wouldn't  she  be  here  in  the 
harem?"  Sara  answered  diplomatically. 

"Yes,  and  so  she  would,"  Eayma  replied  more  quietly. 
"And  I  could  measure  my  beauty  against  hers." 

Then  she  started  rocking  herself  to  and  fro,  in  an  agony 
of  grief. 

"Did  he  but  come,  my  love,  my  Lord  Casim,  his  heart 
would  be  mine  again,"  she  sobbed. 

Then  she  stopped  wailing  suddenly,  and  faced  the  old 
woman  anxiously. 

"Sara,  tell  me  quickly,  have  these  weeks  of  weeping 
made  me  less  beautiful?" 

However,  she  did  not  wait  for  any  reply. 

Her  gaze  went  to  the  arches,  where  night  looked  in  at 
her  mockingly. 

"Look.  It  is  night,"  she  cried.  "And  my  heart  is 
hungry  for  love.  For  the  love  of  my  Lord  Casim.  For  his 
arms.  His  kisses.  Again  it  is  night.  And  he  has  not  come." 

Then  through  the  vaulted  room  piercing  shriek  after 
piercing  shriek  rang — the  shrieks  of  a  lovesick  girl  in  the 
throes  of  hysteria. 

As  Sara  sat  patting  Eayma's  hands  and  trying  to  soothe 
her,  she  thought  of  the  milk-white  maid  with  the  wide 
blue  eyes  and  the  golden  curls,  whom  the  Sultan  himself 
had  brought  unconscious  to  his  palace,  and  who  was 
lodged — as  no  other  slave  girl  had  ever  been — in  his  own 
private  suite.  And  who  treated  her  master — as  no  other 
slave  had  ever  treated  him — as  if  she  were  his  equal,  even 
his  superior,  making  him  wait  on  her.  A  task  the  Sultan 
seemed  to  find  pleasure  in! 


CHAPTER  XVII 

ON  the  terrace  of  her  quarters,  Pansy  sat  at  dinner  with  her 
host.  Three  days  had  passed  since  her  rescue  from  the 
slave-market;  three  delightful  days  for  the  girl,  assured 
of  her  own  safety,  her  father's  coming  freedom  and  the 
welfare  of  her  friends.  During  the  time,  Le  Breton  had 
been  with  her  almost  constantly.  From  breakfast  time 
until  after  dinner  always  at  her  disposal,  ready  to  fall 
in  with  her  wishes  so  long  as  they  did  not  entail  too  much 
exertion  on  her  part. 

She  was  anxious  to  be  on  "The  Sultan/'  and  off  for  a 
long  gallop,  but  this  he  vetoed  firmly. 

"It  would  cause  too  much  of  a  sensation,"  he  had  said. 
lr[n  this  country  women  don't  ride  about  on  horseback.  We 
should  have  the  whole  city  at  our  heels." 

Pansy  had  no  desire  for  this  to  happen,  lest  the  Sultan 
Casim  should  learn  she  had  fallen  into  the  hands  of  a  friend, 
and  snatch  her  away  from  her  rescuer,  so  she  did  not  urge 
further.  But  it  was  on  account  of  her  health,  and  not 
the  idea  of  a  crowd  of  his  own  subjects,  that  made  Le 
Breton  refuse  this  indulgence;  for  fear  she  should  not  be 
strong  enough  to  stand  the  shaking. 

He  was  quite  willing  to  take  her  rowing  on  the  lake,  to 
play  croquet  with  her,  or  a  game  of  billiards;  but  most  of 
all  willing  to  sit  at  her  side  in  the  peaceful,  scented  garden, 
or  in  the  cool  gallery,  or  the  salon,  watching  her;  an 
occupation  that  Pansy,  with  an  extensive  knowledge  of  men 
and  their  ways,  knew  the  ultimate  end  of.  An  end  she 
was  doing  her  best  to  keep  at  bay. 

But,  in  spite  of  everything,  she  had  the  feeling  of  being 
a  prisoner.  The  iron  grilles  at  either  end  of  the  long  gallery 
were  never  unlocked;  nor  was  the  gate  into  the  paddock. 

217 


218  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAEA 

There  was  never  a  boat  at  the  foot  of  the  steps  leading 
to  the  lake  except  when  Le  Breton  was  with  her. 

She  had  explored  her  quarters  further.  Beyond  the 
salon  there  was  a  combined  billiard-room  and  library,  and 
its  one  exit  led  into  a  sort  of  big  alcove  dressing-room. 
Beyond  that  was  her  host's  bedroom,  as  to  her  dismay  she 
had  discovered  on  opening  the  door.  For  she  had  found  him 
there  in  shirt  sleeves  and  trousers  with  a  dark-faced  valet, 
who,  on  seeing  her,  had  melted  away  discreetly. 

Pansy  would  have  melted  away  also,  but  it  was  too  late. 
In  a  perfectly  unperturbed  manner,  Le  Breton  had  crossed 
to  her  side. 

"So,  Pansy,  you've  come  to  pay  me  a  visit?"  he  said 
teasingly.  "Thafs  hardly  the  sort  of  thing  I'd  expected 
of  you." 

"I'd  no  idea "  she  began  in  a  confused  manner. 

"There's  no  need  to  make  excuses.  You'll  find  all  th« 
roads  here  lead  to  Mecca.  And  I'm  always  pleased  to  see 
you,"  he  broke  in,  in  the  same  teasing  strain.  "If  you'd 
kept  your  promise,  we  should  be  quite  a.  staid  married 
couple  by  now.  And  you'd  be  free  to  come  and  go  in  my 
apartments.  Think  of  it,  Pansy." 

Pansy  thought  of  it,  and  her  face  went  crimson. 

Her  blushes  made  him  laugh. 

To  the  sound  of  his  laughter,  soft  and  mocking,  she 
retreated,  and  she  did  not  explore  in  that  direction 
again. 

She  explored  by  way  of  her  own  bedroom  instead,  only 
to  find  that  led  into  his  study.  And  after  that  she  did  no 
more  exploring.  For  it  seemed  that  all  roads  did  lead  to 
Mecca,  Whichever  way  she  turned,  Eaoul  Le  Breton  was 
there,  coming  between  her  and  the  man.  she  feared  and 
hated — the  Sultan  Casim  Ammeh. 

"I  feel  like  a  prisoner,"  she  remarked  on  one  occasion. 

They  were  sitting  by  the  lake,  under  the  shade  of  fragrant 
trees,  with  the  blue  water  lapping  the  marble  steps  and 
the  sun  setting  over  the  desert.  A  gilded  world,  where  a 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAEA  219 

golden  sunset  edged  the  golden  sand,  one  flaming  yellow 
sea  above  another. 

"You're  a  novelty  here,"  he  replied.  "A  pearl  of  great 
price.  If  I  didn't  keep  you  well  guarded,  there  would  be 
a  hundred  ready  to  steal  you.  And  I  flatter  myself  that, 
on  the  whole,  you'd  rather  be  with  me." 

He  paused,  watching  her  with  dark,  smouldering  eyes. 

"Am  I  right,  Heart's  Ease?"  he  finished  tenderly. 

Pansy  coloured  slightly  under  the  ardour  of  his  gaze. 

Had  he  been  as  other  men  were,  she  would  not  have 
hesitated  in  her  reply.  She  would  have  said  in  her  own 
impulsive,  truthful  way: 

"I'd  rather  be  with  you  than  anyone  in  the  whole  wide 
world." 

But  now  his  colour  and  religion  were  constantly  before 
her.  And  pride  kept  any  such  confession  from  her 
lips. 

So  instead  she  said : 

ccNo  one  could  have  been  kinder  than  you,  Eaoul.  I 
can  never  be  grateful  enough." 

His  kindness  had  been  before  her  that  night  when  she 
dressed  for  dinner.  Pansy  had  no  clothes  except  the  ones  in 
which  he  had  brought  her.  But,  within  three  days, 
there  was  an  elaborate  wardrobe  at  her  disposal;  the  frocks 
fashioned  like  those  she  had  worn  in  Grand  Canary. 

In  one  of  these  dresses  she  now  sat  at  dinner  with  him; 
a  misty  robe  of  chiffon,  but  there  were  no  diamonds  spark- 
ling like  dew  upon  it.  All  her  jewels  had  been  left  behind 
in  the  dim,  gilded  room  in  the  palace  of  El-Ammeh. 

When  dinner  was  over,  as  they  sat  together  in  the  salon, 
Le  Breton  remarked  on  the  fact. 

"They've  stolen  all  your  pretty  jewels,  Pansy,"  he  said. 
"You  must  let  me  give  you  some  others." 

"You've  done  quite  enough  for  me  already,"  she  replied 
promptly.  "I  can  manage  without  jewels  until  I  get  back 
to  England." 

At  her  words  his  eyes  narrowed. 


220  A  SOX  OP  THE  SAHARA 

"Couldn't  you  be  content  to  stay  here?"  he  asked  in 
a  rather  abrupt  manner. 

"For  a  few  weeks,  perhaps,  then  I  should  be  craving 
change  and  variety.  'The  Light  of  the  Harem'  act 
isn't  one  that  would  satisfy  me  for  long." 

Then  Pansy  was  sorry  she  had  spoken.  She  remembered 
that  he  had  admitted  to  having  a  harem,  probably  some- 
where in  this  very  house.  But  she  had  spoken  with  the 
idea  of  letting  him  see  his  case  was  hopeless;  of  saving 
him  the  pain  of  refusal. 

"Considering  how  ill  you've  been,  the  'Light  of  the 
Harem  act,'  as  you  call  it,  would  be  the  best  sort  of  life 
for  you  for  some  time  to  come." 

"How  do  you  know  I've  been  ill?"  she   asked  quickly. 

Le  Breton  saw  he  had  made  a  slip,  but  he  covered  it 
up  smartly. 

"Gossip  told  me,"  he  said  coolly. 

There  was  silence  for  a  time,  during  which  he  sat  with 
his  gaze  on  her. 

"Why  don't  you  smoke?"  Pansy  asked  suddenly,  anxious 
to  get  something  between  herself  and  him. 

"When  you're  about  I  don't  need  any  soothing  syrups/' 
he  replied. 

He  was  approaching  dangerous  ground  again.  To  ward 
him  off  Pansy  rose  and  went  to  the  piano.  Seating  herself 
there,  she  wandered  from  one  item  to  another,  with  scarcely 
a  pause  between. 

But  the  feeling  of  his  eyes  never  off  her  made  her  stop 
all  at  once  and  laugh  hysterically. 

A  crisis  had  to  be  faced  sooner  or  later.  Things  might 
as  well  come  to  a  head  now  as  to-morrow  or  next  week. 

At  that  moment  Pansy  remembered  the  man  who  had 
held  her  with  such  fierce  strength  and  passion  in  the  moon- 
lit garden  of  the  villa.  And  she  wondered,  not  without 
a  touch  of  alarm,  how  he  would  take  her  refusal. 

She  got  up  and  went  to  his  side. 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA  221 

"I  must  give  you  something  else  to  do  than  just  watching 
me.  It  makes  me  nervous,"  she  said. 

From  a  box  on  a  table  near  she  took  a  cigarette  and 
placed  it  between  his  lips.  Then  she  struck  a  match  and 
held  it  towards  him. 

In  a  lazy,  contented  manner,  he  let  her  do  it.  But  when 
the  cigarette  was  lighted,  he  did  not  give  her  time  to  draw 
her  hand  away. 

He  caught  her  wrist,  and  drawing  her  hand  a  little  closer, 
blew  out  the  match.  When  this  was  done,  he  did  not  let 
her  hand  go.  Instead,  he  took  one  or  two  puffs  at  the  cigar- 
ette, all  the  time  watching  her  closely. 

"I  didn't  give  you  my  hand  'for  keeps,' "  she  said.  "1 
want  it  back  again,  please." 

It  was  hint  enough  for  any  man,  but  Le  Breton  did  not 
take  it. 

In  a  deliberate  manner,  and  with  her  still  a  prisoner, 
he  got  to  his  feet,  and  put  the  cigarette  on  the  table. 

Pansy  did  not  try  to  free  herself.  The  situation  had  to 
be  faced. 

When  the  cigarette  was  laid  down,  he  took  the  other 
delicate  wrist  into  his  keeping.  Then  he  drew  the 
girl  right  up  to  him,  until  her  hands  were  resting  on  his 
chest. 

"Pansy,  suppose  1  ask  you  to  redeem  your  promise?'* 
he  said. 

"Oh  no,  I  couldn't,"  she  answered,  a  trifle  breathlessly. 

"Why  not?  I'm  exactly  the  same  man  now  that  I 
was  when  you  promised  .to  marry  me.  A!  much  better 
man,  if  you  only  knew  it.  Thanks  to  meeting  you." 

"I  didn't  know  anything  about  you  then." 

"But  you  knew  you  loved  me." 

"I  do  now,  Eaoul,"  she  said. 

"Does  the  fact  of  my  Arab  blood  make  marriage  between 
us  impossible?" 

There  was  no  reply. 


222  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA 

In  her  silence  Le  Breton  read  his  answer. 

His  hands  tightened  on  her  wrists,  and  a  baulked  look 
crossed  his  face. 

So  the  black  barrier  was  one  that  neither  love  nor  grati- 
tude would  make  her  cross  willingly. 

There  were  some  bitter  moments  for  him,  as  he  realised 
this.  For  all  his  wealth  and  power,  for  all  his  scheming, 
despite  the  fact  that  Pansy  confessed  to  loving  him,  she 
refused  to  be  his  wife.  It  seemed  that  nothing  he  could 
do  would  bring  her  into  his  arms  in  the  willing  way  he 
wanted. 

Pansy  was  the  first  to  speak. 

In  that  crushing  grip  on  her  wrists,  she  read  an  agony 
of  pain  and  disappointment,  that  her  one  desire  now  was 
to  soothe. 

"It's  not  you,  Raoul.  It's  the  idea/'  she  said  in  a  low 
voice. 

"So  the  idea  of  marrying  me  is  repugnant.  And  yet 
you  love  me?" 

She  nodded. 

Loosing  her  wrists  he  turned  to  the  table,  and  took 
another  cigarette.  This,  however,  he  lighted  for  himself. 

Pansy  watched  him,  marvelling  at  the  cool  way  he  had 
taken  her  refusal. 

Considering  the  fire  and  temper  in  the  man  and  his  air 
of  never  having  been  thwarted  in  any  way,  it  was  hardly 
what  she  had  expected.  She  put  it  down  to  the  fact  that 
she  was  completely  at  his  mercy,  alone  and  helpless  in  this 
barbaric  city.  Her  heart  ached  at  the  thought  that  through 
no  fault  of  his  own  she  could  only  give  him  pain  in  return 
for  all  his  kindness. 

Going  to  his  side,  she  laid  a  slim  hand  on  his  sleeve. 

"Raoul,  I  hope  you  know  you're  awful  nice  about  things," 
she  said. 

He  glanced  at  her.  At  the  beautiful  eyes  raised  to  hig 
with  infinite  gentleness  in  their  velvety  depths. 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHABA 

And  he  laughed. 
"Am  I?"  he  said. 

Then  he  laughed  again.    And  his  mirth  was  a  mingling 
of  bitterness  and  savagery. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

PANSY  saw  nothing  of  her  host  until  the  following  afternoon. 
Almost  immediately  after  his  declaration  Le  Breton  left 
her.  Most  of  his  time  had  been  spent  in  contemplating 
the  truth  now  before  him.  His  scheming  had  failed.  A 
sense  of  gratitude  had  not  made  the  girl  forget  his 
colour. 

After  a  sleepless  night,  he  was  up  and  away,  riding 
madly  along  one  of  the  sandy  tracks  that  served  his  king- 
dom as  roads,  in  a  vain  endeavour  to  escape  from  his 
chagrin  and  disappointment,  and  trying  to  decide  on  his 
next  move. 

He  was  surprised  at  his  own  hesitation.  Having  failed 
to  attain  his  object,  he  was  astonished  that  he  should 
pause  before  doing  what  was  obviously  the  only  course 
left  open  to  him.  Just  take  the  girl,  whether  she  liked  it 
or  not. 

But  he  knew  why  he  hesitated. 

Pansy  loved  him  in  her  own  way,  as  she  might  love  a  man 
of  her  own  nationality.  If  he  took  her  in  his  high-handed 
fashion,  that  love  might  be  swept  from  him.  And  the  idea 
was  one  that  he  could  not  bear  to  contemplate. 

He  returned  from  his  wild  ride  still  undecided  on  the 
next  move. 

In  this  frame  of  mind  he  came  upon  Pansy,  in  the  midst 
of  a  solitary  afternoon  tea,  set  in  a  shady  corner  of  the 
tennis  court. 

She  greeted  him  as  if  the  episode  of  the  previous  afternoon 
had  never  been. 

"What  have  you  been  doing  with  yourself  all  day?" 
she  asked,  as  she  handed  him  a  cup  of  tea. 

224 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA  225 

"I've  been  trying  to  ride  off  my  disappointment,"  he 
replied. 

Pansy,  too,  had  been  fighting  a  battle  of  her  own.  Most 
of  her  night  had  been  spent  in  arguing  with  temptation. 

She  was  rich  and  independent.  Why  shouldn't  she  marry 
the  man  she  loved,  even  if  it  were  going  against  all  the  canons 
of  her  society?  She  was  wealthy  enough  to  defy  society. 
She  owed  more  than  her  life  to  him.  Gratitude  as  well  as 
love  urged  her  towards  him.  Why  should  she  make  him 
suffer  through  no  fault  of  his  own?  Why  should  she  suffer 
herself?  Why  should  she  shut  herself  up  from  the  man 
she  loved  because  he  happened  to  be  a — a 

"A  nigger." 

The  echo  of  Dennis's  voice  shouted  the  word  at  her, 
as  it  had  seemed  to  shout  that  night  in  the  London  hotel, 
when  Le  Breton's  name  had  been  mentioned. 

Pansy  looked  at  her  host  as  he  lolled  beside  her;  a 
picture  of  strength  and  handsomeness. 

She  wished  his  dark  blood  were  more  in  evidence.  That 
he  did  not  look  exactly  like  some  of  the  big  French,  Spanish, 
and  Italian  men  she  had  seen  occasionally  in  various  places 
on  the  continent.  So  absolutely  European  was  he  that  it  was 
impossible  to  think  he  was  half-Arab. 

"I  wish  you  weren't  so  nice  and  handsome,  Raoul,"  she 
said  impulsively. 

He  cast  a  quick,  speculative  glance  at  her. 

Perhaps,  after  all,  a  little  more  patience  was  all  that  was 
needed — patience  combined  with  his  own  presence. 

When  tea  was  over,  Pansy  got  up  in  a  restless  way. 

"I  feel  I  must  do  something  active,  or  else  go  mad," 
she  remarked. 

The  feeling  was  one  he  could  sympathise  with. 

''We'll  have  a  game  of  tennis  then,  if  you  promise  to 
go  easy." 

Pansy  remembered  the  way  he  had  played  that  afternoon 
in  Grand  Canary. 

"You'll  simply  mop  the  floor  with  me,"  she  said. 


226  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA 

"I'll  play  you  left-handed." 

Only  too  anxious  to  get  away  from  her  own  thoughts 
and  the  temptation  they  brought,  Pansy  turned  towards 
the  court. 

When  the  game  started  he  handled  his  opponent  care- 
fully, putting  the  balls  where  she  could  get  them  without 
any  effort. 

At  the  end  of  the  first  set  Pansy  objected  to  his  methods. 

"You're  not  really  trying,  you're  only  playing  with  me," 
she  said. 

"It  wouldn't  be  fair  for  me  to  pit  all  my  strength  against 
yours,  would  it  now  ?"  he  asked. 

"Well,  do  make  a  game  of  it.  If  you  go  on  like  this, 
I  could  sit  down  comfortably  in  the  middle  of  the  court 
and  win.  You  needn't  put  the  balls  on  my  racket.  I  can 
stretch  an  inch  or  so  around  without  fatal  results." 

The  next  game  was  more  strenuous.  But,  as  it  went  on, 
Pansy,  getting  excited,  forgot  caution.  A  long  stretch 
and  an  upward  spring  to  intercept  one  of  her  opponent's 
balls,  brought  cutting,  knife-like  pains  tearing  at  her  chest. 

The  racket  dropped  from  her  grip.  She  stood,  white  and 
swaying,  her  hand  on  her  heart. 

In  a  moment  he  had  vaulted  the  net,  and  was  at  her  side, 
his  arm  about  her,  concern  on  his  face. 

"It's  nothing,"  she  gasped. 

"It's  that  accursed  bullet,"  he  said,  conscience-stricken. 
"When  Edouard  extracted  it,  he  warned  me  you'd  feel  the 
effects  for  some  time." 

He  spoke  without  thinking,  the  sight  of  her  suffering 
making  him  forget  his  double  role. 

At  the  moment  Pansy  was  too  full  of  pain  to  grasp  what 
he  had  said. 

Half  leading,  half  carrying  her,  he  took  her  to  the 
nearest  chair,  settling  her  there  with  a  cushion  at  her 
head. 

With  white  lips  she  smiled  at  him;  her  only  desire  to 
allay  his  concern. 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAEA  227 

"There's  nothing  to  worry  about,"  she  said  faintly.  "I'm 
9  long  way  from  being  dead." 

"It's  all  my  fault,"  he  said  hoarsely. 

"Oh  no,  you  always  said  I  mustn't  be  too  strenuous," 
she  contradicted. 

Le  Breton  let  it  stay  at  that,  aware  that  he  had  said 
more  than  he  intended  to  say,  and  hoping  the  girl  had  not 
grasped  all  that  lay  within  his  comment. 

For  some  minutes  Pansy  sat  quiet,  and,  as  her  pain 
receded,  her  companion's  sentence  came  more  to  the  fore. 

"It's  that  accursed  bullet.  When  Edouard  extracted  it 
he  warned  me  you'd  feel  the  effects  for  some  time." 

From  Alice,  Pansy  had  learnt  that  the  bullet  had  been 
extracted  on  the  day  she  was  brought  into  her  enemy's 
camp. 

Then  Kaoul  must  have  been  there!  With  the  Sultan's 
forces ! 

But  why  hadn't  he  told  her?  Why  had  he  pretended 
that  he  only  had  guessed  she  was  the  girl  captured?  Why 
had  he  never  mentioned  Dr.  Edouard  before?  Why  had 
Dr.  Edouard  never  mentioned  him  ? 

It  looked  as  if  he  had  not  wanted  her  to  know. 

But  why  hadn't  he  wanted  her  to  know? 

As  Pansy  pondered  on  the  problem,  mingled  with  the 
sweetness  of  the  roses  came  another  scent  she  knew — one 
that  had  greeted  her  every  morning  during  her  stay  in 
the  palace. 

Above  the  screening  trellis  of  roses,  a  tree  grew,  covered 
with  great  bunches  of  pink  flowers,  like  apple  blossom  but 
more  vivid,  filling  the  air  with  fragrance. 

Pansy  had  seen  the  flower  before;  among  the  blossoms 
that  used  to  come  to  her  every  morning  in  the  dim,  gilded 
chamber. 

"Still  only  a  few  flowers,  Pansy?" 

Le  Breton's  remark  in  the  orange  groves  at  Telde 
suddenly  flashed  across  her  mind.  She  remembered  also 
his  array  of  Arab  servants,  how  obsequious  they  had 


228  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAEA 

been  to  their  master  on  that  occasion;  and  his  wealth  and 
magnificence;  a  splendour  that  was  almost  regal. 

Close  to  where  she  sat,  the  tea-table  stood. 

Among  the  assortment  of  cakes  were  one  or  two  of  a  kind 
she  had  seen  previous  to  her  rescue.  Tiny,  diamond- 
shaped  dainties,  made  from  layers  of  sponge  cake  and 
marzipan  with  chocolate  icing  on  the  top. 

Often,  in  those  long,  hopeless  days  in  the  gilded  prison, 
a  similar  morsel  was  all  she  had  been  able  to  eat  for  her  tea. 

Sixteen  years  ago  a  boy  of  about  fourteen  had  sworn 
to  kill  her  father.  He  would  be  thirty  now.  The  same  age 
as !  And  the  Sultan  spoke  French  too! 

They  were  little  things,  but  they  all  pointed  in  one  and 
the  same  direction.  And,  as  Pansy  brooded  on  them,  an 
incredulous  expression  came  to  her  eyes,  and,  with  it, 
a  look  as  if  she  were  fighting  to  keep  some  horrible,  impos- 
sible truth  at  bay. 

Her  gaze  went  to  Le  Breton. 

"A  great,  big,  fine  man,  awful  good-looking." 

Alice's  description  of  the  Sultan  Casim  Ammeh  came  back 
to  her.  Words  that  fitted  her  host  exactly. 

As  she  looked  at  him,  from  the  paddock  came  the  stamp  of 
a  horse's  hoof. 

She  was  here.  Her  favourite  horse  was  here.  Baoul 
Le  Breton  was  here.  All  of  them  in  this  desert  city  hun- 
dreds of  miles  from  civilisation.  Such  a  combination 
could  not  be  unless 

"If  I  were  a  king  in  Babylon  and  you  were  a  Christian 
slave.  Or  to  get  down  to  more  modern  times.  If  I  were 
a  barbaric  Sultan  somewhere  in  Africa  and  you  a  girl  I'd 
fancied  and  caught  and  carried  off  .  .  ." 

His  own  words  came  echoing  through  her  head;  con- 
demning words. 

Then  she  recollected  with  what  unpleasant  emphasis  he 
had  said  "au  revoir,"  on  parting  with  her  that  night  on 
her  yacht. 

All  at  once  Pansy's  miracle  exploded. 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHABA  229 

She  wondered  how  she  could  have  been  such  a  fool  as 
not  to  have  guessed  sooner. 

This  was  the  Sultan  Casim  Ammeh!  This  man  standing 
before  her! 

He  caught  her  gaze  and  smiled;  it  seemed  to  the  girl, 
mockingly. 

"Well,  Heart's  Ease,  are  you  feeling  better?"  he  asked. 
"After  this  you'll  agree  with  me  that  'The  Light  of  the 
Harem'  act  is  the  most  suitable  life  for  you  just  at 
present." 

It  seemed  to  Pansy  that  he  was  gibing  her. — At  her 
trust,  her  belief,  her  incredulous  folly. 

What  a  blind  fool  she  had  been!  It  was  all  as  plain  as 
daylight  now.  Eaoul  Le  Breton  was  the  Sultan  Casim 
Ammeh.  It  was  her  father's  enemy  she  had  confessed  to 
loving;  had  wept  in  front  of,  clung  to,  trusted,  display- 
ing a  weakness  that  had  fallen  to  no  man's  lot,  save  her 
father's. 

At  the  thought  Pansy's  soul  writhed  within  her. 

How  could  she  have  been  such  a  fool !  How  he  must  have 
laughed  at  her! 

Eaoul  Le  Breton  had  condemned  her  to  the  unspeakable 
ordeal  of  the  slave  market  in  order  to  torture  her  father. 

He  had  done  it !    Eaoul  Le  Breton !     The  man  she  loved. 

Pansy  did  not  love  him  now.     She  hated  him. 

For  a  moment  she  was  too  stunned  by  her  discovery  to 
say  or  do  anything. 

Then  she  said  in  a  voice  that  wild  anger  stifled  somewhat : 

"So  you  are  the  Sultan  Casim  Ammeh." 

As  Pansy  spoke  she  got  to  her  feet,  her  eyes  blazing. 

There  was  no  mistaking  what  was  on  her  face.  She  had 
guessed  the  truth. 

On  realising  this,  he  made  no  attempt  at  further  decep- 
tion. 

"I  am  the  Sultan  Casim  Ammeh,"  he  said,  smiling. 
"And,  my  little  slave,  you  are  my  most  cherished  posses- 
sion. More  to  me  than  my  kingdom." 


230  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAEA 

His  cool  confession  staggered  her. 

As  he  stood  there,  unabashed  and  unrepentant,  she  looked 
round  quickly,  in  search  of  something  to  strike  him  with. 
For  the  knowledge  of  his  deceit  and  duplicity  had  made 
her  beside  herself  with  rage. 

Since  there  was  no  weapon  at  hand,  she  set  off  rapidly 
across  the  lawn,  heedless  of  where  she  went,  her  only  desire 
to  get  away  from  him. 

She  had  not  gone  very  far,  however,  before  he  was  at 
her  side. 

"Where  are  you  going,  Pansy?"  he  asked  with  a  master- 
ful air. 

That  he  should  dare  to  follow  her;  dare  to  call  her  by 
her  name  enraged  her  beyond  all  bounds.  And  his  words 
added  to  her  fury.  They  made  her  realise  there  was  nowhere 
she  could  go  to  escape  him. 

Like  a  whirlwind  she  turned  upon  him. 

"I  wish  ...  I  wish  I  could  kill  you,"  she  gasped. 

There  was  a  tennis  racket  lying  at  her  feet.  As  if  to 
carry  out  this  design,  she  stooped  and  picked  it  up;  her 
only  desire  now  to  send  it  crashing  into  the  mocking,  master- 
ful face. 

But  he  guessed  her  intention.  In  a  moment  he  had 
grasped  the  racket  and  wrested  it  away. 

"No,  Pansy,"  he  said.  "No  one  has  ever  struck  me, 
and  you're  not  going  to.  For  I  don't  quite  know  what  the 
consequences  might  be." 

There  was  a  brief,  tense  silence. 

As  he  looked  at  the  girl,  it  seemed  that  Fate  had  decided 
the  next  move  for  him. 

"We  may  as  well  come  to  an  understanding,"  he  went 
on.  "I  hate  your  father,  but  I  love  you.  And  you've 
got  to  have  me,  whether  you  like  it  or  not.  I'd  prefer  to 
marry  you  in  your  English  way.  But  if  you  won't  consent 
to  that,  then — I  shall  take  you,  in  mine.  The  choice  is 
with  you." 

There  was  only  one  part  of  his  ultimatum  that 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAEA  231 

thoroughly  grasped'.  And  there  seemed  no  limit  to  his 
audacity. 

"I'd  rather  die  than  marry  you/'  she  flamed.  "For  I 
hate  you.  Do  you  hear  ?  I  hate  you  more  than  anything  on 
this  earth." 

He  heard  right  enough,  and  his  face  blanched  at  her 
words. 

Then,  before  he  had  recovered  from  this  blow,  Pansy 
struck  him  across  the  mouth,  with  all  her  strength,  bringing 
blood  to  the  lips  that  dared  to  talk  of  love  to  her. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THERE  was  a  new  slave  in  the  Sultan's  harem,  a  dazed  girl 
who  looked  as  if  she  moved  in  dreams.  She  was  not  re- 
clining on  a  lounge  or  cushions,  as  the  other  girls  around 
the  fountain  were.  She  half  sat,  half  knelt  upon  her 
cushions,  her  slim  bare  legs  beneath  her,  her  hands  lying 
listlessly  on  her  knee,  staring  straight  ahead  as  if  in  a  trance. 

Since  that  episode  on  the  tennis  court,  Pansy  felt  as  if 
she  were  living  in  the  midst  of  some  wild  story,  in  which 
Raoul  Le  Breton  and  the  Sultan  Casim  Ammeh  had  got 
mixed. 

The  Sultan  wanted  to  marry  her.    And  she  had  refused. 

Then ! 

Then,  infuriated  with  the  sense  of  her  own  helplessness 
and  his  complete  power,  she  had  struck  him. 

She  could  see  him  now,  with  the  blood  oozing  on  his  lips, 
his  face  white  with  rage,  his  eyes  flaming,  looking  as  if 
he  could  kill  her.  And  she  had  wished  he  would.  Then 
there  would  have  been  an  end  of  it  all.  She  would  have 
done  with  him,  herself,  her  own  folly,  and  the  hatred  that 
raged  like  a  fire  within  her. 

But  he  had  not  touched  her. 

White  with  passion  he  had  just  stood  and  looked  at  her. 
And  she  had  looked  back,  waiting  for  the  end  that  had  not 
come. 

Instead,  three  women  had  come.  And  she  had  been  taken 
out  of  his  presence.  Through  the  big  salon  and  along  dim 
passages,  past  silk-clad,,  jewelled  guards,  and  into  a  little 
room,  with  an  ottoman  and  cushions  and  a  tiny  window, 
all  fretted  like  lace,  impossible  to  get  out  of. 

232 


A  SON  OP  THE  SAHAEA  233 

Then  the  women  had  undressed  her.  They  were  three 
to  one.  It  was  useless  to  struggle:  dignity  seemed  all  that 
was  left  to  her. 

There  was  not  much  of  that  even  when  the  women  had 
done  with  her.  They  put  her  into  a  white  silk  slip  that 
reached  only  to  her  knees,  and  with  nothing  more  than  a 
strap  of  pearls  on  either  shoulder.  They  would  have 
heaped  more  pearls  upon  her,  string  upon  string  about 
her  neck.  But  she  would  not  have  that.  She  tore  them 
off,  so  angrily  that  the  slender  threads  snapped  and  they 
fell  like  frozen  tears  upon  the  marble  floor,  as  her  amber 
beads  had  fallen  that  night  in  his  villa ! 

What  a  minor  thing  Lucille  Lemesurier  was  now! 
Forgivable  when  she  had  learnt  his  race  and  religion. 
Not  like  this  gigantic  deception.  A  deception  that  had 
forced  her  into  saying  she  loved  the  Sultan  Casim  Ammeh — 
the  man  who  had  tortured  her  father. 

Leaving  the  women  grovelling  after  the  scattered  pearls 
Pansy  had  rushed  from  the  room,  her  only  desire  to  seek 
some  way  of  escape. 

She  had  gone  in  her  short  slip  and  short  curls,  looking 
like  some  lovely,  rebellious  child. 

Her  steps  had  taken  her  into  a  big  room  like  a  hall, 
where  a  crowd  of  women  were  gathered;  half  a  dozen  of 
them,  girls  dressed  in  a  similar  style  to  herself. 

Then  Pansy's  strength  went  from  her  suddenly. 

She  realized  where  she  was.  In  the  Sultan's  harem! 
And  she  knew  there  would  be  no  escape. 

Sara  had  come  to  her,  and  had  led  her  towards  a  pile 
of  cushions  set  by  a  fountain  where  the  other  girls  were. 
And  the  woman  had  said  sharp  words  to  the  assembly,  who 
had  risen  as  if  to  crowd  around  her — words  that  had  kept 
them  at  bay. 

When  she  was  seated  they  had  stayed  looking  at  her,  most 
of  them  with  curiosity  and  friendliness.  But  there  was  one 
face  that  Pansy,  for  all  her  numbness,  saw  was  hostile;  the 
face  of  a  beautiful,  golden-skinned  girl. 


234  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA 

There  was  one  girl,  too,  who  was  more  than  specially 
friendly,  who  said  to  her  in  a  soft,  cooing  voice : 

"Where  do  you  come  from,  sister,  for  your  skin  is  whiter 
than  mine?" 

Pansy  did  not  answer  Leonora's  question.  She  was  won- 
dering herself  where  she  came  from.  From  another  world, 
it  seemed. 

It  was  incredible  that  she,  Pansy  Langham,  could  be  a 
slave  in  a  Sultan's  harem,  garbed  as  these  other  slave  girls 
were.  Incredible  that  only  that  afternoon  she  had  been 
playing  tennis  with  Eaoul  Le  Breton,  as  she  might  have 
played  with  any  man  in  her  own  place  in  England. 

What  ages  ago  it  was!  Yet  perhaps  it  was  only  an  hour. 
Like  a  beautiful  dream  that  had  vanished. 

There  was  no  Eaoul  Le  Breton.  No  big,  masterful  man 
whom  she  had  had  to  love,  in  spite  of  everything.  There 
was  only  this  barbaric  Sultan  who  hated  her  father.  Who, 
because  she  refused  to  marry  him,  had  sent  her  to  this 
strange  room.  His  harem! 

And  she  was  his  slave!  She  Pansy  Langham,  who  had 
never  obeyed  any  will  except  her  own. 

Her   hands   clenched. 

How  she  hated  him!     He  was  so  supremely  master. 

Any  moment  he  might  come  to  pick  whichever  of  hia 
slaves  he  fancied.  And — he  might  pick  her. 

The  ignominy  of  it!  Just  to  be  a  man's  chattel.  And, 
hitherto,  all  men  had  been  her  abject  and  willing  slaves. 

Heedless  alike  of  Leonora's  cooing  advances,  and  Rayma's 
dark  scowls,  Pansy  sat  down. 

The  shadows  gathered.  The  lamps  were  lit.  Then  dinner 
time  came.  A  conglomeration  of  sweets  and  fruit  and  dainties 
set  out  on  silver  trays,  with  only  a  spoon  to  eat  with. 

Again  Leonora's  voice  broke  into  Pansy's  broodings. 

"Come,  won't  you  eat,  my  sister  ?"  she  coaxed,  pushing  one 
of  the  trays  closer. 

But  Pansy  felt  as  if  she  could  never  eat  a  bite  again. 

Rayma  ate  nothing  either. 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAEA  235 

With  angry  eyes,  she  studied  the  newcomer. 

Pansy  was  very  beautiful  in  her  way,  but  no  more  beautiful 
than  Bayma  was  in  hers.  And  what  was  more,  she 
was  not  perfect.  There  was  an  ugly  red  scar  on  one  of  her 
milk-white  arms.  And  the  Lord  Casim  hated  flaw  or  blemish 
on  a  woman. 

Would  this  new  slave's  presence  bring  him  to  the  harem  ? 

If  he  came ! 

Eayma  clenched  her  little  white  teeth. 

Then  there  would  be  a  battle  royal  between  this  white 
girl  and  herself  for  his  favors.  But  she  would  not  let  his 
heart  go  lightly. 

Stretched  full  length  on  her  couch,  her  elbows  on  the 
soft  cushions,  her  pointed  chin  in  the  cup  of  her  hands,  the 
Arab  girl  lay  watching  her  rival  and  waiting. 

The  evening  wore  on.  The  lamps  burnt  low,  and  started 
to  flare  and  crackle,  without  any  sign  of  the  Sultan  com- 
ing. 

Presently,  shriek  after  shriek,  echoing  through  the  vaulted 
hall,  roused  Pansy  from  her  broodings,  making  her  look  round 
in  a  quick,  startled  manner.  The  shrieks  were  familiar. 
Muffled  they  had  reached  her  every  evening  in  that  dim, 
gilded  chamber. 

"It's  only  Eayma,"  Leonora  said  indifferently.  "She  has 
hysterics  every  night  because  the  Sultan  does  not  come.  He 
has  not  been  to  the  harem  now  for  three  months  or  longer. 
Not  since  he  left  the  city  on  some  foray.  She  fears  some 
other  girl  has  stolen  his  heart  from  her." 

Leonora  paused,  her  great  eyes  on  the  new-comer. 

"Is  it  you,  my  sister?"  she  finished  inquisitively.  "For, 
if  so,  I  shall  love  you." 

But  Pansy  had  nothing  to  say. 

At  that  moment  she  was  wondering  why  Eayma  shrieked 
because  the  Sultan  had  not  come.  There  seemed  to  her  more 
reason  to  shriek  if  he  did  comi. 


CHAPTEE  XX 

ON  one  of  the  terraces  of  his  palace  the  Sultan  sat  and 
brooded,  his  face  hard  and  savage,  as  he  glowered  at  the  scene 
ahead  of  him;  a  harmless  scene  where  night  shadows  settled 
on  a  scented  garden  with  the  glint  of  a  lake  beyond. 

Never  in  his  life  had  such  an  indignity  been  put  upon  him. 
Never  had  anyone  dared  dispute  his  right  to  do  what  he 
pleased.  Never!  Until  this  English  girl  had  come  into  his 
life. 

And  she  had  struck  him.  The  Sultan!  As  if  he  were 
some  erring  menial  whose  ways  had  annoyed  her. 

Under  the  recollection  the  man's  untamed  soul  writhed. 

She  had  done  as  she  liked  all  her  life.  All  that  money 
of  hers  had  given  her  ideas  no  woman  ought  to  have.  Now 
she  had  to  learn  that  he  was  her  master. 

She  was  in  the  harem  now.  And  there  she  could  stay. 
A  spell  there  would  cool  her  temper  and  make  her  more 
amenable  to  his  wishes. 

The  trees  in  the  garden  sighed  faintly.  The  soft 
wind  brought  the  scent  of  roses  and  the  splash  of  a  fountain. 

His  mind  went  back  to  another  garden,  in  far-away  Grand 
Canary.  The  echoes  of  a  girl's  voice  whispered: 

"Put  your  ear  quite  close.  It's  not  a  matter  that  can 
be  shouted  from  the  house-tops/' 

She  had  shouted  loud  enough  that  she  hated  him.  She 
had  not  whispered  that  fact. 

A  spasm  of  pain  crossed  his  face. 

Why  did  she  fight  against  him?  This  slender,  lovely, 
helpless  girl,  whom  he  could  break  with  one  hand.  She 
fought  bravely,  with  ail  the  odds  against  her.  And  she 
had  dared  to  do  what  no  one  else  in  the  place  dared  do. 
What  no  one  had  ever  done  in  the  whole  of  his  wild, 

236 


A  SON  X)F  THE  SAHAEA  237 

unbridled  life.  She  had  dared  to  strike  him,  fair  and 
square,  with  all  her  strength,  across  the  mouth. 

Then  suddenly  his  anger  melted.  A  smile  came  and  played 
about  his  scarred  lips. 

Surely  no  man  could  be  angry  for  long  with  a  girl  so 
brave  and  helpless. 

He  deserved  it  for  his  deception.  Just  as  he  had  de- 
served her  scorn  and  contempt  over  Lucille.  She  was 
always  giving  him  what  he  deserved,  this  little  English 
flower  of  his. 

More  than  he  deserved,  a  struggling  conscience  breathed. 

For  he  had  never  deserved  those  three  words  she  had 
once  whispered  in  his  ear: 

"I  love  you." 


CHAPTER  XXI 

ALL  the  following  day  Rayma  waited  for  the  Sultan's 
coming.  Pansy  waited,  also.  By  now  she  realised  more 
fully  what  she  had  done:  struck  and  infuriated  the  man 
who  held  her  father's  life  in  his  hand. 

However,  nothing  was  seen  of  the  Sultan  either  that 
day  or  the  next. 

For  Pansy  the  days  were  the  longest  she  had  ever  spent 
in  her  life. 

She  could  not  doze  away  her  time  as  the  other  girls  did, 
with  coffee  and  sherbet  and  cigarettes;  their  greatest 
exertion  a  bath,  or  making  sweetmeats  over  a  charcoal 
brazier,  or  doing  intricate  embroidery.  She  kept  out  of 
their  way  as  much  as  possible,  in  her  own  room,  or  wander- 
ing aimlessly  in  the  garden,  looking  at  walls  impossible 
for  her  to  scale,  wondering  what  had  happened  to  her 
father  and  her  friends,  and  what  would  happen  to  herself. 
But  even  the  garden  was  barred  to  her  except  in  the 
very  early  morning,  and  the  brief  space  after  sunset.  If 
she  tried  to  go  at  other  times  there  were  twenty  women 
to  stop  her.  The  order  was  the  Sultan's,  she  was  told, 
lest  to  escape  him  she  should  wander  in  the  tropic  heat  and 
make  herself  ill. 

All  her  meals  had  to  be  taken  in  the  harem,  and  for 
bathing  there  was  only  the  harem  bathroom.  That  was  a 
vast  underground  tank,  approached  by  marble  steps,  cool 
and  still  and  dim,  its  silence  only  broken  by  the  dip  of 
water. 

There  the  girls  disported  themselves  several  times  a  day. 
But  Pansy  was  not  used  to  company  when  she  bathed. 

28ft 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAEA  239 

And  to  avoid  them,  she  rose  very  early,  when  she  was  sure 
of  having  the  great  marble  tank  to  herself. 

During  the  afternoon  of  the  third  day  the  Sultan 
came. 

Pansy  was  not  in  the  harem  at  the  time,  but  lying  on 
the  lounge  in  her  own  room. 

Sara's  entrance  roused  her. 

"My  pearl,  the  Sultan  is  here,"  she  said  conjolingly. 
"And  he  desires  to  see  you." 

"I  prefer  to  stay  where  I  am,"  was  the  cold  response. 

The  woman  looked  at  her,  speculating  on  the  relations 
between  this  girl  and  the  Sultan.  They  had  once  been  so 
fond  of  one  another,  always  together.  And  now  the  girl 
had  been  sent  to  the  harem,  and  for  three  days  the  Sultan 
had  not  come  near  her. 

"It's  useless  to  resist,  my  pearl,"  Sara  explained.  "If 
you  don't  come  when  the  Sultan  commands,  servants  will 
be  sent  to  fetch  you." 

Pansy  had  no  wish  to  be  dragged  into  her  captor's 
presence. 

Since  she  had  to  go,  she  might  as  well  go  with 
dignity. 

However,  she  did  not  go  very  far.  Only  just  beyond  the 
door  of  her  own  quarters.  Once  there  she  sank  down 
quickly  on  a  pile  of  cushions,  in  her  usual  position,  half 
sitting,  half  kneeling;  a  position  that  made  the  scantiness 
of  her  garment  not  quite  so  obvious. 

At  once  she  knew  who  the  man  in  the  white  burnoose 
was,  although  she  had  never  seen  him  in  anything  but 
civilised  attire  before.  He  was  sitting  on  an  ottoman  near 
the  fountain,  with  the  girls  clustered  around  him,  fawn- 
ing on  him  like  dogs  round  a  loved  master. 

Pansy  turned  a  slender,  disdainful  shoulder  on,  the 
scene. 

But  if  she  did  not  look  in  the  direction  of  the  group, 
there  was  one  at  least  who  kept  a  sharp  suspicious  eye  on 
her. 


240  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAEA 

By  the  Sultan's  side  Bayma  sat,  with  her  pointed  chin 
resting  upon  his  knee. 

"Why  haven't  you  come  sooner  to  see  that  new  slave 
of  yours,  Casim  beloved?"  she  asked,  pointing  a  slim  finger 
at  the  distant  girl. 

"I've  had  other  things  than  women  to  think  about,"  he 
replied  evasively. 

A  bitter  reminiscent  smile  curved  his  lips  as  he  spoke. 
Some  words  of  Pansy's  were  in  his  mind. 

"So  long  as  it's  'women/  it's  all  right.  The  trouble 
starts  when  it  comes  to  'woman."' 

Certainly  for  him  the  trouble  had  started  when  it  came 
to  "woman";  when  this  slender,  wayward,  golden-haired 
girl  came  into  his  life.  For  she  had  robbed  all  other 
women  of  their  sweetness. 

With  longing  his  gaze  rested  on  Pansy. 

What  a  fool  he  was  not  to  take  her. — To  let  her  whim 
come  butween  himself  and  his  desires. 

But  there  was  something  more  than  a  girl's  whim  had 
he  but  realised  it;  a  feeble  new  self  that  Pansy  was 
responsible  for :  the  man  he  might  have  been  but  for  his 
profligate  training. 

Eayma  saw  where  his  gaze  was.  To  get  his  eyes  away 
from  Pansy,  she  took  one  of  his  hands  and  pressed  it  on 
her  bosom. 

"When  first  I  came  here,  my  lord,"  she  whispered,  "there 
was  nothing  else  you  could  think  of." 

His  attention  came  back  to  her. 

"You  were  very  pretty,  Eayma,"  he  said  a  trifle  absently. 

"And  am  I  not  beautiful  still  ?"  she  asked  quickly. 

"You're  always  a  picture,"  lie  answered. 

He  talked  as  if  to  a  spoilt  child  who  bored  him. 

Eayma  hitched  herself  closer,  until  her  soft  breast  pressed 
against  his  knee.  But  he  remained  silent,  without  look 
or  caress,  his  gaze  still  on  the  distant  girJ. 

He  was  wondering  whether  he  would  take  Pansy  out  of 
her  present  surroundings,  or  if  a  spell  in  the  harem  might 


ba 

•o 

3 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAEA  «41 

not  make  her  realise  to  the  fullest  her  own  helplessness 
and  his  complete  supremacy. 

Leonora  watched  her  master,  her  dark  eyes  full  of  joy 
and  malice. 

"There  are  some  people  who  never  know  when  they're 
not  wanted,"  she  remarked  sotto  voce,  and  to  no  one  in 
particular. 

Eayma  cast  a  venomous  look  at  her.  But  Leonora  only 
smiled  at  her  dagger-like  glances. 

"Can  she  dance,  this  new  slave  of  yours?"  the  Arab 
girl  asked  suddenly. 

"She  dances  very  nicely,"  he  answered  in  an  indifferent 
manner. 

"As  well  as  I  do?"  she  asked  jealously. 

He  thought  of  the  snake-like  writhing  Kayma  called 
"dancing." 

"She  dances  quite  differently  from  you." 

"Let  us  both  dance  before  you  then,  so  that  you  may 
judge  which  is  the  better  of  us,"  she  said  quickly. 

However,  he  vetoed  this  neat  arrangement. 

"The  girl  has  been  wounded.  And  she's  still  not  strong 
enough  for  much  exertion. 

Eayma  brooded  on  this  fact,  and  the  more  she  thought 
about  it,  the  less  she  liked  it. 

"Did  you  capture  her  on  that  foray?"  she  asked  presently. 

"She  was  part  of  my  booty,"  he  said,  a  lingering  tender- 
ness in  his  voice. 

Again  Bayma  was  silent. 

Very  quickly  she  put  two  and  two  together. 

The  Sultan  had  not  been  near  the  harem  since  his  return 
from  that  quest  for  vengeance.  And  this  new  slave  had 
been  captured  during  that  foray. 

So  this  was  the  girl  who  had  stolen  the  Sultan's  heart! 
Who  had  kept  him  away  from  the  harem  all  these  dreary 
weeks.  The  girl  sitting  there  by  the  distant  doorway. 
The  girl  who  would  not  come  near  him;  whom  he  watched, 
yet  did  not  go  to. 


242  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA 

Rayma  scowled  at  Pansy's  back. 

Then  she  turned  to  one  of  the  women  attendants  sitting 
near. 

"Fetch  that  girl  to  me,"  she  said,  pointing  to  Pansy. 

The  woman  rose,  ready  and  anxious  to  do  a  favourite's 
bidding. 

But  the  Sultan  motioned  her  down  again. 

"She  comes  at  no  one's  bidding,  except  mine/'  he  said 
firmly. 

Pouting,  Rayma  wriggled  closer  to  him. 

"May  I  not  even  call  her  ?"  she  asked  softly. 

"The  rule  applies  to  all  here,"  he  replied. 

Somewhat  impatiently  he  pushed  Rayma  aside.  Then 
he  got  to  his  feet,  and  went  towards  Pansy. 

His  step  behind  her  made  the  girl's  heart  start  beating 
violently. 

He  was  coming  to  issue  some  further  ultimatum.  Per- 
haps not  an  ultimatum  even,  but  an  order. 

Pansy  had  wanted  to  see  her  captor,  to  plead  for  her 
father.  Now  that  he  was  there,  the  words  refused  to  pass 
her  lips.  To  have  asked  any  favour  of  him  would  have 
choked  her. 

"Well,  Pansy,  are  you  going  to  marry  me?"  he  a&ked. 

He  might  not  have  been  there,  for  all  the  notice  she  took 
of  him. 

"Come,"  he  went  on,  in  an  authoritative  manner,  "  you 
must  realise  that  I'm  supreme,  and  that  you  must  obey 
me." 

Pansy  realised  this  to  the  fullest,  and  the  sense  of  her 
own  helplessness  only  infuriated  her.  Since  she  had  no 
weapon  she  could  turn  on  him  except  her  tongue,  she  hit 
at  him  with  that.  And  she  hit  her  very  hardest  on  the 
Bpot  she  knew  would  hurt  the  most. 

"English  women  don't  marry  niggers,"  she  said  con- 
temptuously. 

The  word  cut  deep  into  his  proud  spirit;  all  the  deeper 
for  coming  from  her  lips.  Although  he  whitened  under  the 


'A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAEA  243 

insult,  the  knowledge  of  his  own  complete  supremacy  held 
his  fiery  temper  in  check. 

"The  marrying  is  just  as  you  like,"  he  replied.  "Forms 
and  ceremonies  are  nothing  to  me,  but  I'd  an  idea  you 
preferred  them." 

There  was  a  brief  silence. 

With  her  face  turned  away  Pansy  sat  ignoring  him 
entirely,  leaving  him  only  a  slender  white  neck,  a  small 
ear  and  part  of  a  rose-tinted  cheek  to  study. 

And  the  Sultan  studied  them,  amused  that  anything  so 
helpless  should  dare  to  defy  him. 

"You've  not  only  yourself  to  consider  when  you  set  me 
at  defiance  in  this  manner,"  he  remarked  presently. 
"There's  your  father,  and  your  English  friends." 

His  words  brought  Pansy's  eyes  to  him,  fear  in  their 
velvety  depths. 

At  her  look  he  laughed. 

"Your  kind  heart  has  given  me  some  hostages,  Pansy," 
je  said.  "But  nothing  will  happen  to  them  for  another 
week.  I'll  give  you  that  much  time  to  make  up  your  mind. 
Not  longer.  For  my  patience  is  wearing  very  thin. 
And  I've  had  a  lot  where  you're  concerned.  More  than  1 
ever  dreamt  I  was  capable  of.  In  the  meantime,  my  little 
girl,  try  and  remember  I'm  not  quite  the  hopeless  villain 
you  think  me,  or  you  wouldn't  have  liked  me,  even  for  a 
day." 

But  just  then  it  seemed  to  Pansy  there  was  no  greater 
villain  on  earth  than  the  Sultan  Casim  Ammeh. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

EARLY  the  next  morning  when  Pansy  was  splashing  about 
in  the  great  underground  tank,  a  voice  made  her  look  up 
in  a  startled  fashion.  So  far  no  one  had  intruded  on  her 
ablutions. 

It  was  a  soft,  purring,  malicious  little  voice  that  said  in 
lisping  French: 

"Now  I  see  why  you  always  come  here  early.  Why  you 
don't  bathe  with  me  and  the  other  girls." 

On  the  broad  marble  steps  Eayma  stood,  looking  down  at 
her  rival  spitefully. 

"I  come  early  because  I'm  not  used  to  bathing  before 
people,"  Pansy  replied,  hoping  the  other  would  take  the 
hint  and  go. 

But  Eayma  did  not  go.  She  seated  herself  on  the  steps 
and  stayed  there,  her  black  eyes  fixed  on  the  graceful  girl 
in  the  water. 

"Has  the  Sultan  seen  those  scars?"  she  asked,  pointing 
a  slim  disparaging  finger  at  the  network  of  red  marks  and 
ridges  on  Pansy's  thigh  and  side. 

Pansy  flushed  at  the  question. 

"Of  course  not,"  she  cried  indignantly. 

"When  he  bought  me  I  stood  before  him  with  only 
my  hair  for  a  covering.  And  I  stood  gladly,  for  I  knew 
I  was  perfect."  Eayma  finished,  as  if  the  fact  gave  her 
pleasure. 

Pansy  had  no  desire  to  discuss  the  Sultan's  likes  and 
dislikes.  To  avoid  further  conversation,  she  swam  out  to 
the  far  end  of  the  great  bath  and  stayed  there  until  Eayma 

had  gone. 

244 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHABA  245 

All  that  day,  whenever  the  Arab  girl's  eyes  met  hers, 
there  was  a  look  of  malicious  triumph  in  them.  And  when 
the  two  girls  came  within  speaking  distance  that  purring, 
little  voice  whispered  spitefully: 

"Only  wait  until  the  Sultan  comes.  I  shall  find  a  way 
of  taking  his  love  from  you." 

Despondently  Pansy  wished  this  would  come  to  pass. 
She  was  between  the  upper  and  nether  millstones,  her  father 
on  one  side,  her  captor  on  the  other. 

Several  days  passed  without  anything  being  seen  of  the 
Sultan.  Then,  one  night,  he  came,  when  the  girls  were 
gathered  in  the  harem,  drinking  coffee  and  smoking  cigar- 
ettes after  dinner.  Pansy  was  in  the  group,  and  the  sight 
of  his  big,  white-clad  figure  brought  her  to  her  feet  sharply, 
with  a  feeling  of  choking  alarm.  Then  she  stayed  where 
she  was,  fully  aware  that  escape  was  impossible. 

He  seated  himself  at  her  side. 

She  would  have  edged  away,  but  his  voice  stopped 
her. 

"No,  Pansy,  stay  where  you  are/'  he  said  quickly.  "And 
since  I  don't  smoke  Tiubble  bubbles'  like  the  men  in  'Eastern 
pictures  and  on  cigar-box  lids'  you  once  mentioned,  you 
can  give  me  a  cigarette,  and  light  it,  if  you  like,"  he  added, 
with  a  touch  of  teasing. 

Pansy  did  not  like.  She  stood  slim  and  straight  and 
defiant,  ignoring  his  request,  conscious  that  all  eyes  were 
upon  them,  all  ears  listening  to  what  was  said. 

Since  she  refused  to  do  the  Sultan's  bidding,  and  since 
he  made  no  attempt  to  force  obedience,  there  were  half  a 
dozen  pairs  of  hands  ready  and  eager  to  do  the  task  Pansy 
(scorned. 

Eayma's  gaze  rested  jealously  on  the  English  girl, 

"Is  it  always  what  she  likes,  Casim,  my  Lord,  and  never 
what  you  wish?" 

"She  has  been  ill,  and  I  humour  her,"  he  replied 
shortly. 

"Ill  or  not  she  should  be  only  too  pleased  to  do  your 


246  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA 

bidding.  Are  you  not  her  Sultan  and  her  master?  Z  have 
no  will  except  your  wishes.  /  have  no  secrets  hidden  from 
you." 

There  was  a  world  of  insinuation  in  Rayma's  voice. 
And  it  made  the  Sultan  glance  at  Pansy  in  a  quick,  sus- 
picious manner. 

The  only  thing  he  suspected  her  of  doing  was  trying  to 
escape.  He  failed  to  see  how  she  could  get  out  of  her 
present  quarters,  but  the  mere  idea  of  losing  her  sent  a 
chill  through  him. 

"What  are  you  hiding  from  me,  Pansy?"  he  asked 
presently. 

His  close  scrutiny  brought  a  flush  to  her  face,  not  through 
any  sense  of  guilt,  but  because  of  her  unaccustomed  and 
scanty  attire. 

He  saw  the  flush  and  his  suspicions  deepened.  She  was 
capable  of  doing  herself  some  injury  in  order  to  get  away 
from  him. 

"What  do  you  mean,  Rayma?"  he  asked,  as  Pansy  refused 
to  answer. 

The  Arab  girl  sidled  up  to  Pansy,  malice  and  triumph  in 
her  eyes. 

"Do  you  really  want  to  know,  my  Lord?"  she  asked,  smil- 
ing at  him  softly. 

He  nodded. 

Before  Pansy  realised  what  was  happening,  there  was  a 
feeling  of  cold  steel  at  her  breast.  Totally  unprepared,  it 
seemed  that  Rayma  was  going  to  stab  her.  She  moved 
back  quickly.  As  she  moved  there  was  the  sharp  snip  of 
scissors,  a  rending  sound,  a  quick  jerk,  and  her  one  garment 
was  dragged  from  her.  The  Arab  girl  retreated  quickly, 
holding  the  silk  slip  behind  her,  leaving  Pansy  nothing  but 
her  curls  to  cover  her;  a  covering  that  reached  no  further 
than  the  nape  of  her  neck. 

With  a  heart-broken  cry  she  sank  on  the  floor,  and 
crouched  there,  her  face  hidden  in  her  hands,  flushed  with 
shame  from  head  to  foot. 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA  247 

Laughing  triumphantly  Rayma  pointed  a  scornful  finger 
at  her  rival. 

"Look,  Casim,  look,  beloved,"  she  cried,  "that  is  the  secret 
she  would  hide  from  you.  Those  ugly  scars.  And  she 
bathes  early  in  the  morning  when  none  of  us  are  there,  so 
that  we  shall  not  see  them  and  tell  you.  For  she  knows  that 
you  would  not  love  a  woman  so  flawed." 

The  other  women  looked  at  Pansy  in  an  unconcerned 
manner.  Clothing  was  of  no  great  consequence  to  them. 
Moreover,  it  was  just  as  well  not  to  interfere  when  Rayma 
chose  to  play  her  tricks  and  amuse  their  master. 

But  he  did  not  look  at  all  amused.  What  was  more,  his 
gaze  did  not  go  to  the  slim  bare  girl  crouched  on  the  floor. 
He  looked  instead  at  Rayma. 

".Give  the  girl  back  her  garment,"  he  said  in  an  ominously 
quiet  tone. 

"Look,  Casim.  Look,  my  Lord.  A  girl  so  blemished  is 
not  worthy  of  you.  Often  you  have  said  no  woman  has  a 
form  as  perfect  as  mine.  But  look  and  compare.  Then  say 
which  of  us  is  more  deserving  of  your  favour." 

She  snatched  off  her  own  light  garment,  and  stood  before 
him,  slim  and  perfect,  a  golden  statue,  a  model  for  an 
artist. 

The  Sultan's  eyes  were  fixed  on  her  still.  But  there  was 
no  appreciation  in  them,  only  anger. 

"Give  the  girl  back  her  garment,"  he  said  again. 

"When  you  have  looked  at  her,  and  not  before,"  Rayma 
cried,  defiant  in  the  surety  of  her  own  perfections. 

"Give  it  back  when  I  tell  you,"  he  said  in  a  savage 
voice. 

A  tense  silence  followed. 

The  girls  and  women  glanced  at  one  another,  and  waited 
for  what  they  had  seen  happen  from  time  to  time — the  fall 
of  a  favourite. 

Rayma's  "coup"  had  fallen  surprisingly,  ominously  flat. 
The  Sultan  refused  to  look  at  the  girl  whose  blemishes  had 
been  unveiled  for  his  inspection. 


348  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA 

Rayma  knew  it  too.  And  as  she  gazed  at  the  cold,  angry 
face  of  her  master,  she  saw  her  star  had  set.  She  threw 
the  silk  slip  at  Pansy  who  still  crouched  on  the  floor, 
paralysed  with  shame.  Beside  herself  with  jealous  rage 
the  Arab  girl  then  stooped  and  picking  up  a  heavy  silver 
goblet  hurled  it  at  her  rival.  Fortunately  it  missed  its  aim 
and  went  skimming  and  crashing  along  the  marble  floor. 

This  attempted  assault  was  the  last  straw.  A  savage, 
merciless  expression  came  to  her  master's  face.  At  this 
look  Rayma  fell  prostrate  at  his  feet. 

"Casim,  love  me  a  little,  and  I  ask  for  nothing  else,"  she 
wailed. 

A  gong  stood  at  his  side.  Ignoring  her,  he  struck  it 
angrily.  Its  musical  notes  echoed  through  the  room.  A 
moment  later  a  couple  of  negroes  appeared  in  the  doorway 
of  the  harem. 

The  Sultan  gave  a  sharp  order  in  Arabic. 

What  it  was  Pansy  did  not  know.  She  was  now  the 
centre  of  a  group  of  women  who,  with  brooch  and  jewelled 
pin,  were  adjusting  her  silk  slip.  They  were  all  anxious  to 
gain  her  good  graces,  since  there  was  no  doubt  now  who  was 
the  Sultan's  favourite. 

In  her  ear  Leonora  was  whispering: 

'"There's  no  need  to  be  ashamed,  my  sister.  Our  Lord 
Casim  never  once  glanced  at  you.  His  eyes  and  his  anger 
were  all  for  Rayma.  Thanks  to  you,  she  now  feels  what  I 
once  felt.  And  her  heart  is  breaking." 

But  if  Pansy  did  not  know  what  the  Sultan  said,  the  crowd 
around  her  did.  They  whispered  affrightedly  among  them- 
selves, and  edged  further  away  from  their  master.  For  the 
Sultan  in  a  temper  was  a  person  to  be  avoided. 

And  Rayma  knew  what  was  going  to  happen.  She  started 
tip  with  dilated  eyes  and  screaming,  then  clung  piteously 
to  his  feet. 

"Casim,  my  Lord,  beloved,  not  that,"  she  cried,  her  little 
face  frantic.  "Not  that,  I  entreat  you,  for  the  sake  of  the 
nights  that  have  been." 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAEA  249 

There  w«is  no  pity  on  his  face,  only  savagery.  All  mercy 
had  been  swept  out  of  him  by  her  attempt  to  shame  and 
injure  Pansy. 

The  guards  returned,  bringing  whips. 

On  seeing  them  Eayma's  screams  broke  out  afresh. 
Piteous  little  pleas  for  mercy,  wild  promises  never  to  offend 
again,  that  he  ignored  completely.  Then  she  fell  a  sobbing, 
golden  statue  at  the  Sultan's  feet. 

Eayma's  cries,  terror-stricken  and  helpless,  reached  Pansy 
in  the  midst  of  her  own  dazed  shame,  making  her  glance 
in  the  direction  of  the  man  she  hoped  never  to  have  to  face 
again. 

She  saw  the  huge  negroes  with  their  whips,  awaiting  the 
Sultan's  order.  The  sobbing,  helpless  girl  at  his  feet,  and 
on  his  face  a  look  she  had  never  seen  before — the  look  of  an 
angered  and  pitiless  despot. 

For  a  moment  she  stood  aghast,  not  able  to  credit  the 
scene  before  her.  As  she  looked  the  Sultan  nodded. 

The  guards  raised  their  whips.  And  they  fell  with  cruel, 
stinging  force. 

But  they  did  not  fall  on  Eayma. 

There  was  one  in  the  harem  who  dared  come  between 
the  Sultan  and  his  wrath. 

The  whips  fell  on  white  shoulders,  not  golden  ones,  bring- 
ing the  blood  oozing  to  satin-smooth  skin. 

The  weight  and  pain  brought  Pansy  to  her  knees  before 
her  captor. 

"Baoul,"  she  gasped,  "I  can't  let  you  do  this  dreadful 
thing." 

The  whips  fell  from  the  negroes'  hands.  Aghast,  they 
stared  at  the  girl  before  them.  It  was  not  their  fault  the 
1-shes  had  fallen  on  the  new  favourite  and  not  on  the  culprit. 
But  they  would  be  held  responsible,  and  doubtless  beaten 
nevertheless.  The  women  and  girls  started  to  scream  and 
wail.  Their  master  might  turn  on  them  for  letting  the  new 
slave  get  within  reach  of  the  whips.  But  who  was  to  know 


250  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA 

she  would  dare  come  between  the  Sultan  and  a  girl  he 
thought  well  to  punish. 

He  paid  no  heed  to  the  frightened  stares  of  the  guards, 
the  wails  of  the  scared  women,  to  Rayma  still  sobbing, 
with  fright,  not  pain.  He  had  thoughts  and  eyes  for  noth- 
ing but  the  girl  on  her  knees  before  him,  with  the  red  weals 
on  her  shoulders,  horror  and  entreaty  in  her  eyes — Pansy 
calling  him  once  again  by  name. 

With  a  fierce,  possessive  movement,  he  stooped  and  gathered 
her  into  his  arms,  crushing  her  against  him,  until  she  was 
almost  lost  in  his  voluminous  robes. 

"My  little  English  flower,  you  can't  quite  hate  me,"  he 
whispered  passionately.  "Or  you  wouldn't  try  to  keep  me 
what  you  once  thought  me.  You  wouldn't  try  to  come 
between  me  and  the  man  I  am." 

With  the  girl  in  his  arms,  he  rose. 

Scared  eyes  watched  him  as  he  crossed  the  big  hall,  and 
disappeared  behind  the  silken  curtains. 

Then  the  girls  started  to  whisper  among  themselves.  For 
the  Sultan  had  taken  this  new  slave  to  the  gilded  chamber 
of  their  desires. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

THROUGH  the  open  arches  of  the  gilded  chamber  the  moon- 
light dripped,  making  silver  ponds  on  the  golden  floor, 
filling  the  place  with  a  vague  shimmering  glow. 

One  bar  of  moonlight  fell  on  a  couch  where  Pansy  lay, 
her  face  buried  in  the  cushions.  By  her  side  the  Sultan 
knelt,  one  arm  across  her,  watching  her  with  glowing,  pas- 
sionate eyes. 

The  last  few  minutes  had  been  a  haze  to  the  girl;  a  blur 
of  great  negroes  with  whips;  of  Rayma,  sobbing  and  help- 
less; of  Raoul  Le  Breton,  cruel,  as  she  had  always  felt  he 
might  be. 

He  had  come  back  into  her  life  suddenly,  that  lover  with 
the  strong  arms  and  the  deep,  caressing  voice,  the  big,  half- 
tamed,  arrogant  man,  whom  from  the  first  she  had  liked 
and  had  never  been  afraid  of. 

"What  dare  I  hope?  What  dare  I  think?"  his  voice 
was  saying.  "Dare  I  think  that  you  don't  quite  hate  me? 
Look  at  me,  my  little  slave,  and  let  me  see  what  is  in  your 
eyes." 

But  Pansy  did  not  look  at  him.  She  was  too  full  of 
Bhame  and  confusion,  despite  Leonora's  assurance;  a  shame 
and  confusion  that  the  Sultan  guessed  at,  for  he  stayed 
caressing  her  golden  curls  with  a  soothing  touch. 

For  a  time  there  was  silence. 

Through  the  room  the  wind  strayed,  its  soft,  rose-ladened 
breath  mingling  with  the  subtle  scent  of  sandalwood.     Scr><? 
where  in  the  garden   an  owl  hooted.     A  peevish  wail  in 
the  night,  came  the  cry  of  jackals  prowling  around  the  ciiy 
walls. 

Under  that  firm,  strong,  soothing  hand,  Pansy's  shanni 
subsided  a  little.  For  the  girl  there  was  always  magic  in 
his  touch,  except  when  anger  raged  within  her.  There  was 

251 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA 

no  anger  now,  only  a  sense  of  her  own  helplessness,  and  the 
knowledge  of  the  lives  he  held  in  his  power. 

Under  the  silence  and  his  soothing  hand,  a  question 
trembled  to  her  lips,  born  of  her  own  helplessness  and  the 
dire  straits  of  her  father  and  friends. 

"If  ...  if  I  marry  you,  will  you  send  my  father  and 
friends  safely  back  to  Gambia?"  she  asked,  in  a  low  voice. 

He  laughed  tenderly. 

"If  I  were  as  big  a  villain  as  you  think  me,  I'd  say  'yes/ 
aad  then  break  faith  with  you,  Pansy — as  you  broke  faith 
with  me.  If  I  sent  them  back,  my  little  flower,  do  you 
know  what  would  happen?  Your  English  friends  would 
complain  to  the  French  Government.  An  expedition  would 
be  sent  up  here,  and  they  would  dole  out  to  me  the  fate 
your  father  doled  out  to  mine." 

His  words  made  Panpy  realise  for  the  first  time  that  his 
summary  abduction  of  his  father's  party  had  brought  him 
foul  of  two  Governments. 

Horrified,  she  gazed  at  him;  her  father  and  friends  all 
forgotten  at  the  thought  of  the  fate  awaiting  her  captor. 

They  would  shoot  him,  this  big,  fierce  man.  All  fire 
would  die  out  of  those  flashing  eyes.  That  handsome  face 
would  be  stiff  and  stark  in  death.  Never  again  would  that 
hard  mouth  curve  into  lines  of  tenderness  when  he  smiled 
at  her.  There  would  be  no  strength  left  in  his  arms.  No 
deep,  passionate,  caressing  voice.  No  untamed,  masterful 
man,  using  all  his  power  to  bend  her  to  his  will. 

It  was  one  thing  for  Pansy  to  want  to  kill  him  herself, 
but  quite  another  for  other  people  to  set  about  it. 

At  that  moment  she  realised  that,  in  spito  of  everything, 
she  did  not  hate  the  Sultan  Casim  Ammeh. 

And  what  was  more  he  knew  it  too.  For  he  bent  over 
her,  laughing  softly. 

"So,  Heart's  Ease,  you  don't  quite  hate  me,"  he  said. 
"That  fact  will  keep  me  patient  for  quite  a  little  time. 
And  you  will  be  whispering  'yes'  in  my  ear,  as  I  would 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAEA  253 

have  you  whisper  it — of  your  own  free  will,  as  you  whis- 
pered 'I  love  you/  on  that  sweet  night  six  months  ago." 

He  hent  still  lower,  and  kissed  the  little  face  that  watched 
him  with  such  strained  anxiety. 

"Good  night,  my  darling,"  he  said  fondly. 

Long  after  he  had  gone  Pansy  lay  trying  to  crush  the 
truth  back  into  its  hiding-place  in  her  heart.  And  his 
voice,  tender  and  triumphant,  seemed  to  echo  back  mock- 
ingly from  the  jewelled  ceiling. 

For  surely  she  could  not  love  a  man  so  cruel,  so  barbaric, 
so  profligate  as  the  Sultan  Casim  Ammeh. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

THE  next  morning  Pansy  awoke  to  find  herself  back  in  her 
gilded  prison,  and  Alice  beside  her  with  the  customary 
morning  tea,  a  dish  of  fruit  and  a  basket  of  flowers,  all  as  if 
the  last  ten  days  had  never  been.  She  knew  now  the  flowers 
were  from  the  Sultan.  But  she  did  not  tell  Alice  to  take 
them  away.  Instead,  as  she  drank  her  tea  and  ate  some 
fruit,  she  looked  at  them  in  a  meditating  manner. 

And  Alice  looked  at  her  mistress  in  an  inquisitive  way, 
wondering  what  had  happened  to  her  during  the  last  few 
days. 

"De  Sultan,  he  no  sell  you  den,  Miss  Pansy?" 

"No,"  Pansy  replied  in  an  absent  manner. 

"Since  you  go  I  lib  wid  de  oder  servants  in  anoder  part 
ob  de  palace.  Dere  be  hundreds  ob  dem,"  the  girl  con- 
tinued, her  eyes  round  with  awe  at  her  captor's  wealth  and 
power. 

She  spoke,  too,  as  if  anxious  for  an  exchange  of  confi- 
dences. 

However,  Pansy  said  nothing.  She  stayed  with  her  gaze 
on  the  flowers,  despising  herself  for  having  been  so  upset 
at  the  thought  of  the  Sultan's  demise. 

That  morning  Alice  dressed  her  in  her  usual  civilised 
attire.  In  spite  of  this,  Pansy  found  she  was  still  a  prisoner, 
still  within  the  precincts  of  the  harem.  The  rose  garden 
was  hers  to  wander  in  at  will.  But  the  guards  were  still 
stationed  outside  one  of  the  sandalwood  doors,  as  they  had 
been  on  the  day  of  her  arrival  at  the  palace.  However,  one 
of  the  two  other  doors  was  unlocked. 

Pansy  opened  it,  hoping  some  way  of  escape  might  lay 
beyond.  A  dim  flight  of  stairs  led  downwards.  She  de- 
scended, only  to  find  herself  in  the  harem. 

254 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAEA  255 

The  girls  and  women  greeted  her  with  an  awed  and 
servile  air.  To  them  now  she  was  the  Sultan's  first  wife; 
the  most  envied  and  most  honoured  woman  in  the  province 
of  El-Ammeh. 

Curious  glances  were  cast  at  her  attire.  Leonora  appeared 
most  at  her  ease.  For  she  fingered  Pansy's  garments  with 
soft,  slow,  indolent  hands. 

"It's  quite  ten  years  since  I've  seen  a  woman  dressed 
as  you  are,"  she  remarked.  "Not  since  I  lived  in  Tangier, 
before  my  uncle  sold  me  to  an  Arab  merchant." 

Pansy  knew  Leonora's  history.  It  did  not  sound  a  pretty 
one  to  civilised  ears. 

Sold  at  the  age  of  fourteen,  she  had  been  handed  from 
one  desert  chief  to  another,  until  finally  she  had  appeared 
in  the  slave  market  of  El-Ammeh  and  had  taken  the  Sul- 
tan's fancy. 

"What  an  awful  life  you've  had,"  Pansy  said,  pity  in  her 
voice. 

Leonora's  languid  eyes  opened  with  surprise. 

"Me!  Oh,  no.  I'm  beautiful,  and  most  of  my  masters 
have  been  kind.  But  none  so  kind  and  generous  as  the 
Sultan  Casim.  Besides,  now  my  travels  are  at  an  end. 
When  the  Sultan  tires  of  a  slave,  he  does  not  sell  her.  She 
is  given  in  marriage  to  one  of  his  officers,  with  a  good 
dowry.  And  she  is  then  a  woman  with  an  established  posi- 
tion. He  is  always  generous  to  a  woman  who  has  pleased 
him.  How  lucky  for  you  to  be  picked  for  his  first  wife ! 
You'll  find  him  almost  always  kind.  I've  been  here  more 
than  a  year  and  I  know.  He  is  never  harsh  without  a  rea- 
son. He  is  never  hard  and  unjust  like  some  of  the  masters 
I've  known." 

As  Pansy  listened  to  this  eulogy  on  her  captor,  she  was 
surprised  and  ashamed  of  herself  for  having  a  scrap  of 
liking  left  for  him.  All  her  instincts  revolted  at  his  doings, 
but  much  as  she  tried  she  could  not  make  them  revolt  at 
the  man  himself. 

"He  was  hard  enough  last  night,"  she  remarked. 


256  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA 

"But  he  had  a  reason.  Rayma  would  have  shamed  and 
injured  you.  She  could  not  see  what  I  saw — that  the  Sultan 
has  eyes  and  thoughts  and  heart  for  no  one  but  you  now. 
She  is  a  stupid  girl,  that  Rayma.  Because  he  loved  her 
for  a  month  or  two.,  she  thought  he  would  love  her  for  ever. 
He  was  her  first  master.  He  bought  her  but  a  few  weeks 
before  he  last  went  to  Paris.  And  he  is  so  angry  now  that 
he  will  sell  her  again,  not  give  her  in  marriage  to  one  of 
his  officers,  making  her  a  woman  of  importance." 

Leonora's  remarks  made  Pansy  glance  sharply  round  the 
big  hall,  suddenly  aware  that  Rayma  was  not  present. 
Already  she  saw  the  Arab  girl  having  to  face  that  dreadful 
sea  of  eyes,  as  she,  herself,  had  faced  it. 

"Where  is  Rayma?"  she  asked  quickly. 

"The  guards  took  her  away  last  night,"  Leonora  answered 
indifferently.  "She'll  trouble  you  no  more." 

Hastily  Pansy  got  to  her  feet,  and  went  to  the  big  door 
leading  out  of  the  harem.  She  knew  what  lay  beyond;  a 
large  vestibule  where,  day  and  night,  half  a  dosen  eunuchs 
lounged. 

Seeing  Pansy  on  the  threshold,  brought  them  to  their 
feet,  barring  her  exit. 

"I  must  see  the  Sultan,"  she  said. 

Although  she  made  the  request,  she  hardly  expected  to 
have  it  granted,  for  the  Sultan  came  when  he  felt  disposed, 

"Lady,  I'll  inform  the  Sultan  of  your  desires,"  one  of 
the  guards  replied. 

With  that  he  left  the  vestibule. 

Pansy  waited,  conscious  of  the  servility  and  overwhelm- 
ing desire  to  please  that  oozed  from  these  menials. 

Before  long  the  messenger  returned. 

It  appeared  that  the  girl's  wish  was  to  be  granted.  With 
a  negro  on  either  side  of  her  Pansy  was  taken  through  an 
intricate  maze  of  corridors,  past  closed  doors,  open  arches 
•and  Arabesque  windows,  to  a  further  door  that  her  escort 
opened. 

Pansy  found  herself  in  a  room  that  looked  more  like  a 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAEA  257 

sumptuous  office  than  anything  else,  with  a  balcony  that 
jutted  over  the  lake. 

At  a  large  desk  a  man  was  seated  in  a  white  drill  suit 
with  a  black  cummerbund,  who  rose  at  her  entry  and  smiled 
at  her,  as  if  the  last  week  had  never  been ;  as  if  he  were  still 
Eaoul  Le  Breton  and  there  had  been  no  unveiling. 

"Well,  Pansy,  it's  flattering  to  think  you  want  to  see  me," 
he  remarked. 

Pansy  did  not  waste  any  time  before  stating  the  reason 
of  her  visit. 

"Is  it  true  you're  going  to  sell  Bayma?"  she  asked  in  a 
horror-stricken  tone. 

The  mere  mention  of  her  name  made  a  savage  expression 
flit  across  his  face. 

"What  I'm  going  to  do  with  her  is  my  own  concern." 

"How  can  you  be  such  a  brute,  such  a  savage,  so  abomi- 
nably cruel  ?"  she  cried,  distress  in  her  voice. 

"Do  you  know,  my  little  slave,  that  you're  the  only  person 
in  the  place  who  dare  take  me  to  task  about  my  doings?" 
he  remarked. 

Pansy  did  not  know,  or  care;  her  only  desire  was  to  save 
him  from  himself. 

"I  shall  stay  here  until  you  premise  not  to  sell  her,"  she 
said  tensely. 

"If  you  stay  until  Doomsday,  it  won't  worry  me,"  he 
replied.  "You  must  find  some  other  threat." 

Pansy  could  have  shaken  him  for  daring  to  poke  fun  at 
her,  when  her  only  desire  was  to  keep  him  from  slave- 
dealing. 

"How  can  you  even  contemplate  such  a  ghastly  thing," 
she  gasped. 

"As  what?"  he  asked  in  an  unconcerned  manner. 

"Don't  you  know  that  slave-dealing  is  an  abomination?" 

"It  may  be  in  your  country,  but  it  isn't  in  mine." 

"I  can't  bear  to  think  of  you  doing  anything  so  dread- 
ful," she  said  in  a  strained  voice. 

He  glanced  at  her,  a  soft,  mocking  light  in  his  eyes. 


258  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA 

"Should  you  like  me  any  better  if  I  didn't  sell  Rayma?" 

"I  should  hate  you  if  you  did." 

"I  couldn't  run  such  a  risk  a  second  time,"  he  replied. 
"I'll  send  her  back  to  the  harem,  and  keep  her  there  until 
I  can  find  a  suitable  husband,  if  that'll  please  you  better." 

Pansy  experienced  a  feeling  of  relief.  The  victory  was 
easier  than  she  had  expected. 

There  was  a  brief  pause.     Then  he  said : 

"So  you're  still  returning  good  for  evil,  Pansy.  Your 
power  of  forgiveness  is  astonishing.  Rayma  deserved  punish- 
ment for  her  treatment  of  you." 

"If  anyone  deserves  punishment  it's  you,"  Pansy  retorted. 

"How  do  you  make  that  out?" 

"For  trifling  with  her." 

For  a  moment  he  was  too  astonished  to  speak. 

"If  you  call  that  trifling,  then  I  must  have  trifled  with 
at  least  a  hundred  women  in  my  day,"  he  remarked  at 
length. 

"How  can  you  stand  there  and  say  such  dreadful  things?" 
she  gasped. 

"There's  nothing  dreadful  about  it  from  my  point  of 
view." 

Pansy  said  nothing.  She  just  stared  at  him,  as  if  at  some 
fascinating  horror. 

Under  her  gaze  he  began  to  find  excuses  and  explana- 
tions for  himself  and  his  behaviour. 

"Don't  you  remember  telling  me  in  that  letter  of  yours 
that  you  were  not  quite  the  same  as  other  girls,  putting 
that  forward  as  a  sufficient  reason  for  breaking  faith  with 
me?  Well,  Pansy,  I'm  not  quite  the  same  as  the  other  men 
you've  known.  To  begin  v/ith,  my  religion  is  different. 
In  my  own  small  way  I'm  a  king.  I  rule  absolutely  within 
a  radius  of  more  than  a  hundred  miles  round  here.  Then, 
I'm  a  millionaire,  and  my  trading  extends  far  beyond  my 
kingdom,  as  far  as  St.  Louis,  in  fact.  -And  millionaires, 
more  especially  if  they're  men  and  unmarried,  are  feted 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA  259 

and  welcomed  everywhere.  And,  like  kings,  millionaires 
can  do  no  wrong.  Then  I'm  half-Arab,  half-French,  which 
you  must  agree  is  a  wild  combination.  Such  a  mixture 
doesn't  tend  to  make  a  man  exactly  virtuous.  I've  done 
exactly  what  I  liked,  practically  ever  since  I  was  born. 
Everybody,  except  my  mother,  did  their  best  to  spoil  me. 
She  was  the  only  one  who  ever  tried  to  keep  me  in  order  in 
any  way,  but  she  died  when  I  was  ten  years  old.  At  four- 
teen I  was  Sultan  here  in  my  own  right.  And  no  one  ever 
dared,  or  troubled,  to  criticise  my  doings  until  you  came 
along.  And  now  you're  expecting  me  to  be  a  better  man 
than  ever  Fate  or  nature  intended  me  to  be." 

Pansy  said  nothing;  she  still  looked  at  him,  trying  now 
to  see  his  point  of  view. 

"/  call  'trifling'  what  you've  done  with  me.  Promising 
to  marry  me  and  then  drawing  back.  I've  never  trifled 
with  you.  And  if  you  can  believe  such  a  thing,  and  if 
you'll  try  and  see  it  in  my  light,  I've  been  faithful  to  you. 
I  never  had  a  thought  for  another  woman  since  the  night 
you  came  into  my  life,  until  I  learnt  you  were  Barclay's 
daughter.  Then  I  tried  to  hate  you,  and  went  back  to  my 
old  life.  But  when  you  were  brought  to  me,  dead,  as  I 
thought,  I  knew  I  didn't  hate  you.  And  since  that  day, 
Pansy,  there's  been  no  other  woman  but  you.  And  you'll 
satisfy  me  for  the  rest  of  my  life." 

Pansy  listened  to  him,  trying  to  see  things  as  he  saw 
them,  knowing  she  ought  to  be  disgusted  with  him.  Instead, 
she  was  intensely  sorry  because  there  had  never  been  anyone 
at  hand  to  check  or  train  him,  except  a  mother  who  had 
died  twenty  years  ago. 

But  his  speech  brought  her  father's  plight  before  her 
again.  It  seemed  hardly  feasible  that  the  Sultan  would 
have  sent  her  letter  to  the  man  he  desired  to  punish. 

"Did  you  give  that  note  of  mine  to  my  father?"  she 
asked. 

A  trifle  askance,  he  glanced  at  her. 


260  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAEA 

"No,  I  didn't,"  he  confessed. 

Pansy  was  past  being  angry  with  him ;  she  was  just  sorely 
wounded  in  soul  and  mind  at  his  doings. 

This  must  have  showed  on  her  face,  for  he  went  on 
quickly : 

"You  can  send  another  and  I  promise  it'll  be  delivered. 
Not  only  that,  but  that  your  father  and  friends  will  be  well 
treated.  Among  other  things,  Pansy,  you've  taken  the 
edge  off  my  vengeance." 

He  paused,  leaning  over  her  he  said: 

"I'm  granting  you  all  these  favours,  but  what  are  you 
going  to  do  for  me?" 

Pansy  wanted  nothing  now  but  to  get  away  from  him, 
right  away,  beyond  his  reach,  but  not  because  she  hated 
him. 

"Just  for  a  moment,  my  little  English  flower,  will  you 
rest  upon  my  heart?"  he  asked  in  a  soft,  caressing  voice. 
"There's  no  savagery  left  in  me  when  you're  there  of  your 
own  accord." 

He  held  out  his  arms,  waiting  to  complete  the  bargain. 
But  she  moved  away  quickly. 

"Oh,  no,"  she  said,  alarm  in  her  voice. 

He   laughed. 

"You've  never  been  afraid  of  me  before,  why  are  you 
now,  Pansy?  Are  you  afraid  you  might  love  me?" 

"How  could  I  love  anyone  so  depraved  ?"  she  asked. 

But  her  voice  was  quavering,  not  scornful  as  she  intended 
it  to  be. 

"Depraved!  So  that's  what  I  am  now,  is  it?  Well,  it's 
all  point  of  view,  I  suppose.  And  ifs  one  degree  better 
than  saying  you  hate  me." 

He  turned  towards  the  desk,  and  drew  out  paper  and 
envelopes. 

"Write  your  letter,  my  little  girl,"  he  finished. 

Pansy  sat  down. 

As  she  wrote  to  her  father,  in  her  heart  was  a  wish  that 
she  had  been  left  undisturbed  in  her  fool's  paradise,  that 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAEA 

she  had  married  Eaoul  Le  Breton  at  the  end  of  a  month, 
knowing  nothing  about  him  except  that  she  loved  him. 

Once  he  was  her  husband,  if  she  had  learnt  the  truth, 
she  would  not  have  had  to  fight  against  herself  and  him. 
There  would  have  been  only  one  course  left  open  to  her — 
to  do  her  utmost  to  make  a  better  man  of  him.  And  circum- 
stances had  shown  her  that  in  her  hands  the  task  would 
have  been  an  easy  one. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

WHEN  Sir  George  Barclay  returned  to  prison,  he  was  a 
broken  man.  His  officers  were  surprised  to  see  him  back 
alive,  and  anxious  to  hear  what  had  occurred.  But  a  day 
or  two  passed  before  he  was  able  to  talk  about  what  had 
happened.  And  always  before  him  was  the  bestial  figure 
of  the  miser  feather  merchant,  into  whose  hands  he  imagined 
his  daughter  had  fallen. 

When  he  told  the  story  of  her  sale  a  strained  silence  fell 
on  his  officers.  A  silence  that  Cameron  broke. 

"The  damned  brute,"  he  said  in  a  wild,  heart-broken 
way,  "and  he  knew  her  in  Grand  Canary." 

The  fact  of  Pansy's  acquaintance  with  the  Sultan  Casim 
Ammeh,  Barclay  had  learnt  from  Cameron  in  the  early 
days  of  their  capture.  The  younger  man  immediately  had 
recognised  the  Sultan  as  the  Raoul  Le  Breton,  who  when 
out  of  Africa  posed  as  a  French  millionaire. 

"He's  worse  than  a  savage,"  one  of  the  other  officers  put 
in,  "since  he  knows  better." 

Sir  George  had  nothing  to  say,  once  the  story  was  told. 
Pansy's  fate  was  always  before  him;  an  agony  that  chased 
him  into  dreams,  compared  with  which  his  own  death  would 
have  been  as  nothing. 

One  morning  about  ten  days  after  the  sale  of  slaves,  one 
of  the  Arab  guards  brought  him  a  letter. 

To  his  amazement,  he  saw  his  daughter's  writing  on  the 
envelope. 

With  trembling  fingers  he  opened  it,  wondering  how  she 
had  managed  to  get  a  message  through  to  him,  with  a 
prayer  in  his  heart  that  by  some  miracle  she  might  have 
escaped  her  horrible  fate. 

262 


A  SOX  OF  THE  SAHARA  263 

"No  one  knows  better  than  I  how  you  must  have  suffered 
on  my  account.  I  tried  to  get  a  letter  through  to  you  before, 
but  I  have  just  heard  it  never  reached  you,  so  I  am  sending 
another. 

I  was  not  sold  that  day  in  the  slave-market.  The  Sultan  never 
intended  to  sell  me.  He  only  sent  me  there  and  made  a  pretence 
of  selling  me  in  order  to  hurt  you. 

I  am  in  the  palace  here,  and  no  one  could  be  better  treated 
than  I  am.  I  asked  the  Sultan  to  let  you  all  go  back  to  Gambia, 
but  he  will  not  consent  to  that.  But  he  has  promised  that  you 
all  will  be  well  treated. 

You  must  not  worry  because  of  me.  It  is  not  as  if  the  Sultan 
and  I  were  strangers.  I  met  him  in  Grand  Canary,  but  I  did 
not  know  who  he  really  was  then — he  was  passing  under  a 
French  name. 

It  is  very  difficult  to  know  what  to  say  to  cheer  you  up.  I 
know  you  will  worry  whatever  I  say.  I  am  quite  safe  here,  and 
no  harm  will  happen  to  me.  I  cannot  bear  to  think  of  you 
worrying,  and  you  must  try  not  to  do  so  for  my  sake. 

Your  loving  daughter, 
PANSY." 

As  George  Barclay  read  through  the  letter,  it  seemed  to 
him  that  he  knew  what  had  happened.  The  girl  had  bar- 
tered herself  in  exchange  for  his  life  and  the  lives  of  her 
friends. 

He  tried  to  gather  what  cold  comfort  he  could  by  keeping 
the  picture  of  the  Sultan  before  him  as  he  had  last  seen 
him,  big  and  handsome,  in  his  khaki  riding  suit,  looking 
thoroughly  European.  At  least  the  man  who  had  his 
daughter  was  a  king,  if  a  barbaric  one,  and  civilised  to  a 
certain  extent.  She  had  not  fallen  into  the  clutches  of 
that  grimy,  naked,  foaming  wretch,  as  he  had  imagined. 
And  the  knowledge  eased  his  tortured  spirit  considerably. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

AFTER  that  interview  with  her  captor  Pansy's  life  rapidly 
developed  into  one  long  struggle  between  inclination  and 
upbringing. 

She  knew  she  loved  the  Sultan,  but  all  her  standards 
revolted  against  marrying  him.  She  could  not  bear  to 
think  about  the  wild  past  that  was  his,  but  she  equally 
could  not  bear  to  think  that  he  might  fall  into  sin  again 
when  hers  was  the  power  to  prevent  him. 

What  was  more,  she  knew  he  had  guessed  her  love  for 
him,  and  was  doing  his  best  to  make  her  succumb  to  his 
attractions. 

After  that  one  interview  she  was  not  allowed  out  of  the 
sensual,  scented  precincts  of  the  harem.  She  had  no  occu- 
pation, no  amusements,  no  books  even.  Nothing  to  do  all 
day  except  just  think  about  her  lover  and  fight  her  battle. 

And  he  made  the  battle  all  the  harder.  Never  a  day 
passed  but  what  he  was  there,  big  and  handsome  and  fas- 
cinating. He  would  come  upon  her  in  the  little  walled  gar- 
den, and  linger  with  her  among  the  roses.  By  the  hour 
he  would  sit  with  her  in  the  wide  gallery  overlooking  the 
desert.  Very  often  he  dined  with  her  in  the  gilded  chamber, 
and  stayed  on  afterwards  in  the  dim  light  of  the  shaded 
lamps,  watching  her  with  soft,  mocking  eyes. 

And  very  often  he  would  say: 

"Well,  Pansy,  have  you  made  up  your  mind  whether 
you  are  going  to  marry  me  or  not?" 

"It  seemed  to  the  girl  that  the  whole  world  was  combin- 
ing to  drive  her  into  the  arms  of  a  man  she  ought  to  turn 
from  with  contempt  and  disgust. 

At  the  end  of  a  fortnight  he  said : 

"Pansy,  you're  the  first  woman  who  has  ever  fought 

264 


A  SOX  OF  THE  SAHARA  265 

against  her  love  for  me.  It's  an  amusing  sight,  but  I'm  be- 
ginning to  wish  you  weren't  such  a  determined  fighter." 

At  the  end  of  a  month  some  of  the  mockery  had  gone  out 
of  his  eyes,  giving  place  to  a  hungry  gleam.  For  the  girl 
had  not  succumbed  to  his  fascinations,  although  her  face 
was  growing  white  and  weary  with  close  confinement  and 
the  ceaseless  battle  that  went  on  within  herself. 

And  the  man  who  acknowledged  no  law  except  his  own 
appetites,  and  who,  up  till  now,  had  lived  for  nothing  else, 
loved  the  girl  all  the  more  deeply  because  she  did  not  suc- 
cumb to  his  attractions,  because  she  had  a  soul  above  her 
senses,  and  tried  to  live  up  to  her  own  ideals,  refusing  to 
come  down  to  his  level.  At  times  he  felt  he  must  try  and 
grope  his  way  up  to  the  heights,  and  unconsciously  he  was 
rising  from  the  depths. 

<rVVater  can  always  reach  the  level  it  rises  from," 
Pansy  had  once  said. 

Although  a  wild  craving  for  his  girl-prisoner  often  kept 
him  wakeful,  although  there  was  none  to  stop  him,  and  only 
a  short  length  of  passage  and  a  locked  door,  to  which  he 
alone  had  the  key,  lay  between  him  and  his  desire,  the 
passage  was  never  crossed,  the  door  never  unlocked. 

To  escape  his  presence  as  much  as  possible,  Pansy  spent  a 
lot  of  her  time  in  the  big  hall  of  the  harem  with  the  other 
girls.  But  one  by  one  they  disappeared,  to  become  the  wives 
of  various  men  of  importance  in  the  place,  until  only  Eayma 
was  left.  A  quiet,  subdued  Rayma  who  watched  Pansy  and 
the  Sultan  with  longing,  envious  gaze. 

"How  happy  you  must  be  now  you  are  his  wife,  and  you 
know  that  he  can't  thrust  you  from  him  should  another 
woman  take  his  fancy,"  the  Arab  girl  sighed  one  day  to  her 
rival. 

Pansy  was  not  his  wife,  and  she  had  no  intention  of 
being.  In  her  desire  to  escape  from  temptation  she  grew 
absolutely  reckless. 

"I  should  be  much  happier  if  I  could  get  right  away 
from  him,"  she  said  in  response  to  Rayma's  remark. 


266  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAEA 

"Don't  you  love  him?"  Eayma  exclaimed. 

"I  hate  him/'  Pansy  said,  lying  to  her  heart.  "I  never 
want  to  see  him  again,"  she  went  on  in  a  hysterical  way. 
"I  only  want  to  escape  from  him  and  this  place,  once  and 
for  ever." 

Astonished,  Rayma  gazed  at  her  supplanter.  Then  a 
look  of  hope  darted  into  her  dark  eyes. 

If  only  this  strange  girl  were  out  of  the  way,  the  Sultan's 
heart  might  return  to  her. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

OUTSIDE  a  little  French  military  settlement  several  ragged 
tents  had  been  pitched.  In  the  largest  of  them  the  miser 
feather  merchant  was  sitting,  cross-legged,  on  a  pile  of 
dirty  cushions.  As  chance  would  have  it,  his  caravan  had 
gone  to  the  south-west,  and  that  night  he  had  halted 
within  three  hundred  miles  of  St.  Louis. 

With  him  was  an  Arab  friend,  a  nomad  like  himself,  who 
chanced  also  to  be  encamped  outside  the  little  settlement. 
A  year  had  passed  since  their  last  meeting.  After  the  first 
exchange  of  compliments,  as  the  two  sat  smoking  together, 
the  new-comer  remarked  to  the  miser: 

"In  your  hunger  for  gold  you  grow  ever  thinner  and 
more  haggard." 

A  wild  look  came  into  the  feather  merchant's  eyes. 

"It  is  not  hunger  for  gold  that  has  robbed  my  bones  of 
their  flesh,"  he  replied.  "But  another  hunger,  far  more 
raging." 

His  friend  puffed  away  in  silence,  and  as  he  puffed,  he 
had  in  mind  an  Arab  proverb  wherein  it  is  said  that  a  man 
can  fall  madly  in  love  with  the  shadow  of  a  woman's  heel. 

"Then's  it's  the  shadow  of  some  woman's  heel,"  he  re- 
marked. 

"More  than  her  shadow,"  the  miser  replied  in  a  parched 
voice.  "I  saw  her  before  me,  as  plainly  as  I  see  you.  A 
houri  from  Paradise." 

His  friend  made  no  reply.  Considering  a  woman  was 
under  discussion  it  was  bad  manners  to  ask  questions.  He 
waited,  knowing  that  silence  on  his  part  would  be  the  most 
likely  way  of  hearing  the  story. 

The  miser's  bony  hands  clenched,  and  his  tongue  went 
round  his  bearded  lips. 

267 


268 

"There  was  a  girl  I  desired,"  he  began  presently.  "A 
milk-white  maid,  more  beautiful  than  the  morning,  with 
hair  golden  as  the  sun,  and  eyes  deep  blue  as  desert  night. 
She  was  a  slave,  and  with  my  wealth  I  would  have  bought 
her.  She  was  more  to  me  than  my  gold.  But  there  was 
another  more  rich  and  powerful.  And  he  took  her — may 
his  soul  perish  in  hell." 

As  the  miser  talked,  an  amazed  look  crossed  his  friend's 
face. 

"And  where  did  you  see  her,  this  milk-white  maid,  with 
the  hair  of  gold,  and  deep  blue  eyes?"  he  asked  quickly. 

"In  a  desert  city,  a  month's  journey  or  more  from  here." 

"And  how  did  she  come  to  be  there  ?" 

"She  was  captured  by  the  Sultan  who  rules  there.  Allah 
curse  him!" 

"So!"  his  friend  ejaculated. 

Then  he  stayed  for  some  moments  ruminating  on  the 
matter. 

"Such  a  maid  was  stolen  three  months  or  more  ago,  from 
a  mighty  white  nation  whose  territory  lies  far  beyond  the 
Senegal,"  he  began  presently.  "And  that  white  nation  has 
made  great  stir  and  commotion  with  our  rulers,  the  French. 
For  the  maid  is  one  of  great  wealth  and  importance  in  her 
own  country,  possessed  of  undreamt-of  riches,  a  fortune  in 
gold  pieces  more  numerous  than  the  grains  of  sand  in  the 
Sahara.  A  month  ago  I  was  in  the  town  of  St.  Louis,  and 
the  people  there  talked  of  nothing  else.  The  white  officers 
here  search  for  her  in  all  directions.  And  great  will  be  the 
reward  of  the  man  who  can  lead  them  to  her  abductor. 
And  great  also  will  be  the  punishment  of  that  desert  ruler 
— even  death." 

Tensely  the  feather  merchant  listened.  Then  he  started 
up  with  a  wild  cry. 

"Allah  be  praised!"  he  shouted.  "For  my  prayer  has 
been  granted.  I  have  found  those  who  are  the  enemies  of 
the  Sultan  Casim  Ammeh.  The  nation  most  mighty  of  all 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAEA  269 

on  this  earth.     And  they  will  break  him,  as  he  has  broken 


me. 


Then  he  darted  from  the  tent,  running  like  a  madman 
in  the  direction  of  the  French  military  quarters. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

ONE  day  when  Pansy  was  in  the  large  hall  of  the  harem, 
Eayma  came  to  her,  a  look  of  feverish  excitement  in  her 
eyes. 

"Do  you  still  wish  to  escape?"  she  asked,  watching  her 
supplanter  as  if  she  could  not  believe  such  a  desire  could 
lie  in  the  heart  of  any  woman  the  Sultan  pleased  to  favour. 

For  Pansy  her  struggle  became  daily  more  difficult.  It 
was  an  obsession  now,  her  wish  to  escape  from  her  captor. 

"How  can  I?  Whichever  way  I  turn  someone  is  there 
to  stop  me." 

"There  is  one  who  will  not  stop  you.  Not  if  he  is  paid 
well  enough,"  Rayma  said,  her  voice  dropping  to  a  whisper. 

"Who  is  that?"  Pansy  asked  quickly. 

"One  of  the  eunuchs  who  guards  your  room  at  night. 
He  loves  jewels  beyond  all  things  on  earth.  And  surely 
the  Sultan  has  given  you  plenty,  although  you  never  wear 
them." 

The  Sultan  had  given  Pansy  none,  because  he  knew  she 
would  not  accept  them.  But  she  had  jewels  of  her  own; 
one  that  would  be  bribe  enough  for  anybody — the  great 
diamond  that  had  aroused  her  lover's  comments  one  night 
in  the  moonlit  garden  of  Grand  Canary. 

Pansy  clutched  at  the  mere  idea  of  escape.  Where  she 
would  escape  to,  she  did  not  pause  to  consider.  To  escape 
she  forgot  his  colour,  his  religion,  his  wild  life,  his  treat- 
ment of  her  father,  everything,  except  her  own  love  for 
him. 

"How  do  you  know  he'll  let  himself  be  bribed?"  she 
asked. 

"One  of  the  women  told  me.  He  is  her  brother.  I've 
spent  days  in  trying  to  help  you  get  away." 

270 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAEA  271 

"Oh,  Eayma,  I  can  never  thank  you  enough,"  Pansy 
said,  hysterically  grateful. 

The  Arab  girl  cast  a  spiteful  glance  at  her,  wondering 
why  the  other  could  not  guess  that  it  was  her,  Rayma's, 
one  desire  to  get  rid  of  her  rival. 

"Each  night  after  dark  you  must  open  your  door,"  the 
Arab  girl  went  on.  "There  will  come  a  night  when  only 
one  of  the  guards  will  be  here.  Then,  if  you  bribe  him 
enough,  he  will  let  you  pass." 

Eayma  did  not  imagine  that  Pansy  would  escape.  She 
expected  and  hoped  that  she  would  be  caught  in  the 
attempt.  Judging  by  her  desert  standards,  death  would 
be  the  portion  of  any  slave-girl  who  dared  attempt  to  fly 
from  her  owner. 

After  that,  every  night  when  she  was  alone,  Pansy  opened 
the  sandalwood  door  leading  into  the  long,  dark  passage 
by  which  she  had  first  entered  the  palace. 

Then,  one  evening,  she  found  only  one  of  the  jewelled 
guards  there. 

On  seeing  this,  she  closed  the  door  again,  and  going  to 
her  jewel  case  got  out  the  one  big  diamond. 

From  the  gallery  of  her  sumptuous  prison  she  had 
gathered  that  beyond  the  rose  garden  lay  the  grounds  of 
the  Sultan's  own  quarters,  where  she  had  spent  those  three 
days  prior  to  his  unveiling.  During  that  brief  time  she  had 
noticed  that,  at  night  and  during  the  heat  of  the  day,  the 
horses  that  browsed  in  the  sun-scorched  paddock  were 
stabled  in  a  long,  low  building  at  the  far  end  of  the  scanty 
field.  And  she  knew,  too,  that  the  iron  gates  by  which  she 
had  entered  the  palace  could  not  lie  so  very  far  away  from 
the  paddock. 

"With  trembling  hands  and  almost  sick  with  anxiety  and 
excitement,  Pansy  opened  the  door  of  her  prison.  She  said 
nothing  to  the  guard  there.  She  merely  held  the  gem  to- 
wards him. 

On  seeing  it,  his  eyes  glittered  covetously. 

Without  a  word  he  took  the  diamond. 


272  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA 

Pansy  passed  down  the  dim  passage.  She  hardly  knew 
how  her  feet  took  her  along  its  ill-lit  length.  Every 
moment  she  expected  to  meet  someone,  or  that  one  of  the 
several  doors  leading  into  it  would  open,  and  her  flight  be 
brought  to  an  abrupt  end. 

However,  unchallenged  she  reached  the  iron  gates. 

A  lamp  flickering  in  a  niche  close  by,  showed  her  that 
one  of  the  doors  was  slightly  ajar.  With  shaking  hands  she 
pulled  it  further  open  and  slipped  out. 

Outside  all  was  silence  and  whiteness.  Like  a  sea,  the 
desert  stretched  away  to  a  milky  horizon.  In  a  luminous 
vault  the  moon  hung,  a  great  round  molten  mass,  that  filled 
the  world  with  a  shimmer  of  silver. 

Finding  herself  really  beyond  the  palace  precincts,  took 
all  strength  from  the  girl.  Hardly  daring  to  breathe,  she 
crept  a  few  steps  further,  and  leant  against  the  city  wall, 
to  recover  a  little  and  get  her  bearings.  Then,  furtive  as  a 
shadow,  she  made  her  way  towards  a  long,  low  building 
that  showed  up  like  a  huge  ebony  block  in  the  whiteness. 

There  were  others  as  furtive  as  Pansy  prowling  round 
the  city  walls;  jackals  searching  for  offal,  snarled  at 
her  as  she  passed  along,  slinking  away  and  showing  teeth 
that  gleamed  like  ivory  in  the  moonlight. 

The  first  sound  of  them  made  her  start  violently,  for  she 
felt  the  Sultan's  hand  upon  her,  drawing  her  back  to  him- 
self and  captivity.  But  when  she  saw  the  prowlers  were 
four-footed,  she  passed  on,  heedless  of  them,  until  the 
paddock  fence  was  reached. 

To  climb  over  was  a  simple  task.  Then  she  ran  swiftly 
across  the  grassy  space;  suddenly  deadly  afraid,  not  of 
the  loneliness,  but  that  the  stable  doors  might  be  locked 
and  she  would  not  be  able  to  carry  out  her  project. 

However,  in  El-Ammeh  there  were  no  thieves  daring 
enough  to  steal  the  Sultan's  horses,  so  the  doors  were  never 
locked.  They  creaked  ominously  when  Pansy  opened  them, 
filling  the  still  night  with  harsh  sounds — sounds  that  she 
felt  must  reach  her  captor's  ears. 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAEA  273 

Inside,  the  stables  were  vaguely  light  with  the  rays  of 
the  moon  that  dripped  in  from  high  little  windows.  For- 
tunately for  Pansy's  plan  it  was  the  hour  for  the  palace 
servants'  evening  meal,  or  there  might  have  been  half  a 
dozen  men  in  the  building.  As  it  was,  there  was  only  a 
long  row  of  horses,  each  in  separate  stalls. 

Pansy  knew  that  if  her  protege  were  there,  he  would 
answer  to  her  call. 

"Sultan,"  she  said  softly. 

There  was  a  whinny  from  a  stall  some  twenty  yards 
away.  Guided  by  the  sound  she  went  in  that  direction. 

It  was  the  work  of  a  few  moments  to  unfasten  the  animal. 
But  to  Pansy  it  seemed  an  age.  Her  hands  trembled  as 
she  fumbled  at  the  halter,  for  she  heard  pursuit  in  every 
sound. 

Then  she  led  the  animal  out  of  the  building,  into  the 
moonlight,  and  closed  the  door  behind  her. 

She  was  an  expert  bare-back  rider. 

Leading  the  horse  to  the  fence,  she  mounted.  Then  she 
trotted  him.  back  to  the  middle  of  the  enclosure,  and  with 
voice  and  hand  urged  him  towards  the  fence  again. 

In  his  old  steeplechasing  days,  a  hurdle  the  height  of  the 
rails  had  presented  no  difficulties  to  "The  Sultan."  And, 
even  now,  he  took  the  fence  at  an  easy  bound. 

Once  over,  it  seemed  to  Pansy  that  the  last  obstacle  be- 
tween herself  and  freedom  had  been  circumvented. 

She  leant  forward,  patting  her  horse  encouragingly. 

"Oh,  Sultan,"  she  said  hysterically.  "I  don't  mind  where 
you  take  me,  so  long  as  I  can  get  away  from  here." 

Left  to  itself,  after  the  manner  of  horses,  the  animal 
picked  the  route  it  knew  the  best;  the  sandy  track  along 
which  the  Sultan  Casim  generally  took  it  for  exercise. 

For  the  first  mile  or  so  Pansy  was  conscious  of  nothing 
except  that  she  had  escaped — escaped  from  a  love  she 
could  not  conquer,  a  man  she  could  not  hate. 

White  and  billowy  the  world  lay  around  her,  an  undulat- 
ing sea  of  sand  with  only  one  dark  patch  upon  it,  the  city 


274  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAEA 

of  El-Arameh.  The  track  the  horse  followed  wound 
through  tufted  hillocks,  mounds  of  silver  in  the  moonlight. 
Here  and  there  a  stunted  shrub  cast  black  lines  on  the  all- 
prevailing  whiteness. 

At  the  end  of  an  hour  Pansy  discovered  she  was  not  the 
rider  she  once  was.  Her  months  of  confinement  had  left 
her  sadly  "out  of  form."  She  was  worn  out  with  the 
exertion  and  the  excitement  of  escape.  It  took  all  her 
skill  to  keep  her  seat  on  the  horse.  And  the  animal  knew, 
for  it  slackened  speed  as  a  good  horse  will  when  conscious 
of  a  tired  rider. 

Others,  also,  seemed  aware  that  something  weak  and 
helpless  was  abroad,  and  with  the  strange  magnetism  of  the 
wild  they  were  drawn  towards  the  girl. 

Here  and  there  in  the  melting,  misty  distance,  a  dark 
form  appeared,  lopping  along  at  a  safe  range,  keeping  pace 
with  the  old  horse  and  its  rider,  every  now  and  again  glanc- 
ing at  the  two  with  glaring  green  eyes,  and  calling  one  to 
another  with  shrieks  of  maniacal  laughter. 

Pansy  hardly  heard  the  hyenas.  She  was  too  intent  on 
keeping  her  seat.  But  the  horse  heard  them  and  he  snorted 
with  rage  and  fear. 

As  the  miles  sped  by,  the  girl  was  aware  of  nothing  except 
a  desire  to  get  further  and  further  away  from  her  lover, 
and  to  keep  her  seat  on  the  horse. 

Then  she  became  aware  of  something  else. 

For  the  horse  halted  and  she  fell  off,  flat  on  the  soft 
sand. 

Shaken,  but  not  hurt,  she  sat  up  and  gazed  around. 

A  little  oasis  had  been  reached,  where  date  palms  stood 
black  against  the  all-prevailing  silver,  and  a  tiny  spring 
bubbled  with  cheerful  whisper. 

When  the  Sultan  took  his  namesake  out  for  exercise, 
this  was  the  extreme  limit  of  their  ride — the  horse  had  been 
there  once  already  that  day — and  in  the  shade  of  the  date 
palms  the  man  and  the  horse  would  rest  awhile  before 
returning  to  the  city. 


A  SON  OP  THE  SAHAEA  275 

But  Pansy  knew  none  of  these  things.  She  only  knew 
that  valuable  time  was  being  lost  sitting  there  on  the  ground. 
But  it  was  such  an  effort  to  get  up. 

Green  eyes  had  seen  her  fall  as  if  dead.  The  hyenas 
crept  stealthily  forward  to  feast  upon  what  lay  helpless  in 
the  sand.  But  when  she  sat  up  they  retreated,  to  squat 
on  their  haunches  at  a  safe  distance,  and  fill  the  night  with 
demoniacal  laughter. 

The  sound  brought  Pansy  to  her  feet,  swaying  with 
fatigue.  She  had  heard  it  before,  around  her  father's  camp 
in  Gambia. 

But  it  was  one  thing  to  hear  the  hyenas  when  there 
were  thirty  or  more  people  between  herself  and  them,  and 
another  now  that  she  was  quite  alone  in  the  desert,  with 
no  one  to  come  to  her  aid. 

The  chorus  of  mad,  mocking  mirth  brought  fear  clutch- 
ing at  her,  a  fear  that  the  horse's  wild  snorts  increased. 
She  looked  round  sharply  to  find  there  were  at  least  a  dozen 
of  the  brutes  on  her  trail. 

It  was  not  Pansy's  nature  to  show  fear,  even  though  she 
felt  it. 

Going  to  the  spring,  she  picked  up  several  large  stones, 
and  threw  them  at  the  hyenas. 

A  note  of  fear  crept  into  their  hideous  voices.  They  beat 
a  swift  retreat,  melting  away  into  distance.  There  was 
too  much  life  left  in  the  girl  and  horse  for  them  to  attack 
as  yet. 

Gathering  her  tired  self  together  Pansy  looked  round  for 
a  rock  high  enough  to  enable  her  to  mount  by.  As  it 
happened  there  was  none  handy.  Taking  her  horse  by  the 
mane,  she  led  him  from  the  oasis.  Somewhat  protestingly 
he  went. 

Pansy  had  to  stagger  on  for  nearly  a  mile  on  fpot,  in  the 
deep,  fatiguing  sand,  before  she  could  find  a  tussock  high 
enough  to  mount  by. 

Once  on,  she  left  the  route  to  her  horse. 

To  the  uninitiated,  one  portion  of  the  desert  looks  very 


276  A  SOX  OF  THE  SAHAEA 

similar  to  another.  And  the  girl  had  no  idea  that  the 
horse  was  retracing  his  steps,  making  his  way  slowly  and 
laboriously  back  to  El-Ammeh. 

She  had  not  the  strength  left  even  to  look  around  her.  The 
hot  night,  the  long  ride,  the  sickly  excitement  attached  to 
escaping,  the  thirst  that  now  raged  within  her,  and  the  final 
tiring  walk,  after  months  of  inactivity,  had  told  upon  her. 
Utterly  worn  out,  she  just  managed  to  keep  her  seat,  in  a 
world  that  had  become  a  place  of  aching  weariness,  through 
which  there  rang  occasional  wild  shrieks  of  laughter. 

Then  it  became  impossible  to  cling  on  any  longer. 

All  at  once,  she  fell  off  and  stayed  in  the  sand,  half 
stunned  by  her  fall,  conscious  of  nothing  except  that  she 
had  escaped  from  the  Sultan  Casim  Ammeh. 

"Wlien  she  fell  the  horse  stopped.  He  stretched  a  long 
neck  and  sniffed  and  sniffed  at  her.  But  since  she  did  not 
get  up,  he  did  not  leave  her.  He  waited  until  she  was  ready 
to  start  off  again,  quite  glad  of  the  rest  himself. 

However,  there  was  not  to  be  much  rest  for  him. 

A  shriek  of  diabolical  laughter  rang  out  at  his  very  heels. 
With  a  snort  of  fear  and  rage,  he  lashed  out.  The  laughter 
turned  into  a  howl  of  pain,  and  one  of  the  hyenas  retreated 
on  three  legs,  with  a  broken  shoulder. 

But  there  were  twenty  or  more  of  them  now,  against  one 
old  horse  and  a  girl  too  utterly  exhausted  to  know  even 
that  her  life  was  in  danger.  And  each  of  the  hyenas  had  a 
strength  of  jaw  that  could  break  the  thigh  of  an  ox,  and  a 
cowardice  of  heart  equalled  only  by  their  strength. 

For  sometime  they  circled  round,  watching  their  prey 
with  ravenous,  glaring  green  eyes,  and  every  now  and 
again  one  or  the  other  made  a  forward  rush,  only  to  find 
those  iron  heels  between  it  and  its  meal.  The  horse  under- 
stood being  baited  in  this  manner,  by  foes  just  beyond  his 
reach.  It  had  been  part  of  the  hell  the  girl  he  guarded  had 
rescued  him  from. 

As  time  went  on.  the  hyenas  grew  bolder. 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA  277 

Once  they  rushed  in  a  body.  But  they  retreated.  One 
•with  a  broken  jaw,  one  with  a  mouthful  of  live  flesh  torn 
from  "The  Sultan's"  flank,  and  one  did  not  retreat  at  all. 
It  lay  with  its  skull  smashed  in,  its  brains  bespattering  the 
horse's  hoofs — hoofs  over  which  now  a  red  stream  oozed, 
filling  the  hot  night  air  with  the  smell  of  live  blood. 

A  desperate  battle  raged  in  the  lonely  desert  under  the 
white  light  of  the  moon.  A  battle  that  filled  the  night 
with  the  mad  mirth  of  hyenas,  and  the  wild  shrieks  of  a 
frightened,  hurt,  infuriated  horse — "The  Sultan" — fighting 
as  he  had  fought  that  day  in  the  East  End  of  London  when 
Pansy  had  first  come  across  him.  But  fighting  for  her  life 
as  well  as  his  own,  against  the  cowards  that  beset  him. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

THE  sound  of  that  desperate  conflict  rang  through  the  still- 
ness of  the  night,  reaching  the  ears  of  a  man  who  was 
riding  at  break-neck  speed  along  the  sandy  track  leading 
in  the  direction  of  the  oasis.  Those  diabolical  shrieks  of 
laughter  filled  him  with  a  torture  of  mind  almost  past 
bearing.  In  them  he  heard  the  voices  of  hyenas  mangling 
the  girl  he  loved. 

Le  Breton  had  always  known  Pansy  would  run  away  if 
an  opportunity  occurred.  But  he  had  imagined  that  he 
had  made  escape  impossible. 

After  dinner,  he  went  to  the  gilded  room,  to  pay  an 
evening  visit  to  his  prisoner,  since  business  affairs  had 
kept  him  from  dining  with  her. 

However,  she  was  not  there. 

Experience  had  taught  him  that  it  would  be  no  use 
looking  for  her  in  the  moonlit,  rose-scented  garden.  She 
never  went  there  after  sunset,  for  fear  he  should  come 
across  her,  and  the  beauty  and  romance  of  it  all,  combined 
with  his  presence,  should  force  the  surrender  he  was  wait- 
ing for. 

Not  finding  Pansy  in  her  own  private  quarters,  he  went 
into  the  big  hall  of  the  harem,  only  to  be  told  she  had  not 
been  there  since  well  before  dinner. 

On  learning  this  he  set  the  women  searching  in  every 
corner  of  the  harem.  But  Pansy  was  nowhere  to  be  found. 

Beyond  a  doubt,  she  had  managed  to  escape.  For  a 
moment  the  news  dazed  him.  He  did  not  waste  time  in 
trying  to  discover  how  she  had  escaped,  or  who  was 
responsible  for  her  getting  away.  She  had  gone.  That 
one  fact  glared  at  him.  No  one  knew  better  than  the 

278 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA  279 

Sultan  himself  the  dangers  awaiting  the  girl  once  she 
strayed  beyond  his  care. 

Within  a  few  minutes  all  his  servants  and  soldiers  were 
out  looking  for  the  fugitive,  scouring  the  city,  with  threats 
of  the  dire  fate  awaiting  anyone  who  dared  either  hide  or 
injure  the  Sultan's  wife. 

A  hasty  search  brought  no  trace  of  the  girl,  but  one  of 
the  search  parties  learnt  that  a  horse  was  missing  from  the 
royal  stables. 

On  hearing  this  the  Sultan  went  at  once  to  the  stables, 
looking  for  a  clue  there.  The  missing  horse  was  Pansy's. 
The  discovery  sent  a  sudden  glow  of  hope  coursing  through 
him.  It  argued  that  somehow  or  other  she  had  managed 
to  reach  the  stables  and  had  set  out  into  the  desert. 

The  Sultan  understood  horses,  even  better,  it  seemed  to 
him  now,  than  he  understood  women.  Left  to  its  own 
devices  the  old  horse  would  go  the  way  it  knew  the  best; 
the  way  he  generally  took  it.  And  left  to  itself  it  was 
almost  certain  to  be,  since  its  rider  had  no  knowledge  of 
any  of  the  sandy  tracks  that  lay  around  the  city. 

Within  a  few  moments  he  was  on  the  swiftest  of  his  own 
horses,  riding  with  all  speed  towards  the  oasis;  but  not 
before  leaving  orders  with  his  officers  to  scour  the  desert  in 
every  direction. 

He  had  ridden  perhaps  five  miles  when  into  the  stealthy 
hiss  of  the  sand  another  sound  came.  At  first  so  far  away 
that  it  was  but  a  distant  moan  in  the  night.  As  he  tore  on 
rapidly  it  grew  louder,  developing  into  a  chorus  of  hideous 
laughter,  the  cry  of  hyenas  howling  round  their  prey. 

Desert  reared,  instinctively  he  knew  there  must  be  at 
least  twenty  of  them. 

When,  above  the  melee  he  heard  the  terrorized  screams 
of  a  horse,  a  deadly  fear  clutched  him.  Where  the  horse 
was,  the  girl  was.  And  the  sound  told  him  the  two  had 
been  attacked. 

Around  Pansy  the  ghastly  conflict  was  raging.  Around 
her  mangled  corpse,  perhaps. 


280  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA 

He  suffered  all  the  tortures  of  the  damned,  as  with  spur 
and  crop  he  urged  the  great  stallion  onwards,  until  the 
animal  was  a  lather  of  sweat  and  foam. 

The  hyenas  heard  the  throb  of  those  approaching  hoofs, 
and  fear  gripped  their  cowardly  hearts. 

The  disconcerting  noise  grew  speedily  louder.  On  the 
whiteness  of  the  lonely  desert  a  dark  patch  appeared;  a 
patch  that  rapidly  became  bigger  and  headed  straight  to- 
wards them. 

It  was  one  thing  to  attack  a  tired  old  horse  and  a  half- 
stunned  girl,  but  another  to  face  a  huge  black  stallion  and 
the  big  man  in  the  white  burnoose  who  rode  it. 

The  hyenas  did  not  face  the  combination.  With  a  weird 
howl  of  disappointment,  they  turned  tail  suddenly  and 
scuttled  away  into  the  desert,  leaving  the  old  horse  shivering 
with  relief  and  pain  and  exhaustion. 

The  feeling  of  someone  touching  her  made  Pansy  open 
her  eyes.  Into  her  hazy  world  her  captor's  face  intruded. 
He  was  half-kneeling  on  the  sand  beside  her,  examining 
her  limbs,  feeling  her  heart,  to  see  if  she  were  injured  in 
any  way. 

For  a  moment  Pansy  could  not  believe  her  eyes. 

Then  she  put  out  a  weak  hand  to  push  him  away.  But 
a  push  did  not  remove  him.  He  was  still  there,  in  white 
cloak  and  hood;  a  desert  chief  who  wanted  to  marry  her. 
Big  and  solid  he  knelt  beside  her,  a  fact  not  to  be  escaped 
from.  And  his  hand  was  on  her  bosom  as  if  to  steal  the 
heart  she  would  not  give  him. 

Satisfied  Pansy  was  not  hurt  in  any  way,  the  Sultan  got 
to  his  feet,  and  turned  towards  the  horse.  It  needed  more 
attention  than  the  girl. 

He  petted  and  patted  the  worn-out  shivering  animal, 
talking  to  it  in  a  deep,  caressing  voice,  as  he  bound  up  its 
gaping  wounds  with  lengths  torn  from  his  own  white  gar- 
ments. 

Then  he  lifted  the  girl  on  his  own  norse,  and,  mounting 
himself,  set  out  on  a  slow  walk  towards  his  city. 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA  281 

Pansy  made  a  feeble  struggle  .when  she  found  herself  in 
his  arms,  her  head  resting  against  his  shoulder,  held  in  a 
tight,  possessive  grip. 

"So,  little  flower,  you  would  still  try  to  escape  from  me," 
he  said  in  a  fierce,  fond  manner.  "But  I  don't  let  love  go 
so  lightly." 

He  ignored  her  struggles  as  he  talked  to  and  encouraged 
the  old  horse  that  hobbled  along  by  their  side,  with  stiff, 
painful  steps. 

As  the  slow  journey  went  on,  Pansy  fell  asleep  against 
the  strength  that  held  her. 

The  Sultan  was  quick  to  note  this,  and  he  smiled  at  the 
small  tired  face  on  his  shoulder.  He  knew  the  nature  of  the 
girl  he  held.  It  would  be  impossible  for  her  to  go  to  sleep 
in  any  man's  arms  except  those  of  the  man  she  loved.  She 
was  very  foolish  to  fight  against  him,  but  fight  she  would 
until  he  used  his  strength  and  ended  the  battle.  An  un- 
even contest  the  last  round  would  be,  with  no  doubt  as  to 
who  would  be  the  victor. 


ON  a  wide  ottoman  in  her  room  Pansy  lay.  The  golden 
lamps  were  burning  low,  casting  black  shadows  on  the  gilded 
walls  of  her  cage.  Through  the  open  arches  the  moonlight 
streamed,  pouring  in  from  a  misty,  mystic  world  where  trees 
sighed  vaguely  in  a  silvered  air. 

Early  that  morning  the  Sultan  had  brought  Pansy  back 
to  the  palace.  Since  then  she  had  seen  nothing  of  him. 

She  brooded  on  her  attempt  to  escape,  which  had  only 
ended  in  her  being  more  of  a  prisoner  than  ever.  The 
guards  about  the  entrance  of  her  quarters  had  been  doubled. 
The  door  leading  into  the  harem  was  locked.  Alice  had 
been  removed,  her  place  taken  by  an  Arab  woman  who  would 
not  or  could  not  understand  a  word  Pansy  said  to  her. 

Sleepless  she  lay  among  the  silken  cushions,  brooding  on 
the  life  that  had  once  been  hers;  a  life  so  remote  from  her 
present  one  that  it  might  never  have  been. 

It  was  impossible  to  believe  that  far  beyond  this  desert 
city  there  lay  a  place  called  London,  where  she  had  been 
free  as  air,  where  she  could  come  and  go  as  she  pleased, 
where  she  had  dined  and  danced  and  lunched  and  visited. 
A  world  of  dreams,  remote,  unreal,  lost  to  her  for  ever, 
where  she  had  been  Pansy  Langham,  feted  and  courted, 
with  society  at  her  feet.  Now  she  was  a  sultan's  slave,  a 
chattel,  her  very  life  dependent  on  a  barbaric  ruler's  whim. 

On  what  punishment  would  be  doled  out  to  her  for  her 
attempt  to  get  away,  she  next  brooded.  There  had  been 
such  a  set,  determined  expression  on  her  captor's  face  when 
he  brought  her  back  to  her  prison. 

The  sound  of  someone  coming  towards  her  apartment 
broke  in  on  her  dreary  reverie.  It  was  close  on  midnight. 
She  had  never  been  disturbed  at  that  hour  before. 

282 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA  282 

She  looked  up  quickly. 

The  third  door  of  her  room  was  opening;  one  that  had 
never  opened  before;  a  door  the  harem  girls  had  told  her 
Jed  to  the  Sultan's  private  suite.  And  the  Sultan,  himself, 
was  entering.  The  Sultan  attired  as  she  had  never  seen 
him  before — in  silk  pyjamas. 

Pansy  started  to  her  feet.  She  stood  slight  and  white 
and  silken-clad  against  the  golden  walls;  her  heart  beating 
with  a  sickly  force  that  almost  choked  her;  her  eyes  wide 
with  fear. 

The  end  had  come  with  a  suddenness  she  was  not  pre- 
pared for. 

He  crossed  to  her  side;  tenderness  and  determination  on 
his  face;  love  and  passion  in  his  eyes. 

For  a  moment  there  was  silence. 

"So,  Pansy,"  he  said  at  length.  "You've  tried  to  solve 
the  problem  your  way.  Now  I'm  going  to  solve  it  mine. 
You've  fought  against  love  quite  long  enough,  against  your- 
self and  against  me.  Fm  going  to  end  the  fight  between 
us.  To-night,  my  little  slave,  you  sleep  within  my  arms 
and  learn  all  that  love  means." 

At  his  words  a  flood  of  crimson  swept  over  her  strained 
face.  She  had  but  a  vague  idea  of  what  was  before  her, 
but  instinct  told  her  it  was  something  she  must  fight 
against. 

Her  gaze  went  to  the  arches,  as  if  in  search  of  some  way 
of  escape  there.  There  was  none.  Only  the  white  stars 
looked  in  coldly,  and  night  breathed  on  her,  soft  and 
sensuous. 

He  knew  where  her  thoughts  were,  and  he  laughed  softly. 

"There's  no  escape  this  time,  Pansy,"  he  said. 

The  fear  in  her  eyes  deepened.  Wildly  she  searched 
round  in  her  head  for  a  way  of  getting  rid  of  him  for  the 
time  being.  And  only  one  course  presented  itself. 

"I  ...  I'll  marry  you,"  she  stammered. 

"We'll  be  married  by  all  means,  if  you  wish,  as  soon  as 
I  can  find  a  man  to  do  the  job.  But  you've  been  just  a 


284  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAKA 

little  too  long  in  making  up  your  mind.  My  patience  is 
worn  out." 

In  her  determination  to  live  up  to  her  <*wn  standards- 
standards  that  had  no  value  in  this  desert  sity: — Pansy  saw 
she  had  tried  this  half-tamed  man  too  far. 

He  came  closer,  and  held  out  his  arms. 

"Come,  my  little  flower,"  he  whispered  passionately. 

Quickly  she  moved  further  away  from  the  arms  that 
would  have  held  her. 

"Won't  you  come  willingly?"  he  asked,  in  soft,  caress- 
ing tones.  "Do  you  still  refuse  me  the  love  I  want,  and 
which  I  know  is  mine  ?" 

"I  don't  want  you  or  your  love,"  she  cried  wildly,  frantic 
at  the  knowledge  of  her  own  helplessness. 

He  laughed  with  a  touch  of  fierceness. 

"What  cruel  words  to  throw  at  your  lover!  But  since 
you  won't  come,  my  little  slave,  then — I  must  take  you." 

He  would  have  taken  her  there  and  then,  but  with  a  swift 
movement  she  avoided  him. 

Then  Pansy  ran,  as  she  had  run  from  him  once  before, 
like  a  white  wraith  in  the  moonlight.  But  this  time  he 
followed. 

There  were  no  electric  lights  and  ragtime  band  to  run  to 
now.  Only  a  moonlit  garden  full  of  the  scent  of  roses. 
There  was  no  crowd  of  people  to  give  her  shelter,  only  the 
deep  shadows  of  the  cypresses. 

In  the  darkness  she  paused,  out  of  breath,  hoping 
he  would  not  see  her.  A  vain  hope.  His  eyes  had  learnt 
to  pierce  the  gloom.  She  was  in  his  arms  almost  before  she 
knew  it. 

There  was  a  brief,  uneven  struggle,  as  Pansy  fought 
against  a  man  who  knew  no  law  except  his  own  desires. 

Weak  and  weeping  she  collapsed  against  him,  on  a  heart 
that  leapt  to  meet  her. 

There  was  a  stone  seat  n?ar.  On  it  the  Sultan  seated 
himself,  the  girl  in  his  arms.  And  in  the  scented,  sighing 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA  285 

silence  he  tried  to  soothe  the  tears  his  methods  had  roused. 

And  trembling  she  lay  against  the  passion  and  power  that 
held  her,  refusing  to  be  comforted. 

"There's  nothing  to  weep  about,  my  darling,"  he  whis- 
pered. "Sooner  or  later  you  have  to  learn  that  I'm  your 
master.  Just  as  you've  taught  me  that  all  women  are  not 
ripe  fruit,  willing  and  anxious  to  fall  into  my  hands.  And 
I  must  have  some  closer  tie  between  us  since  love  alone  won't 
keep  you  from  running  away  from  me." 

Pansy's  tears  fell  all  the  faster.  For  now  it  seemed  her 
own  doings  were  responsible  for  this  crisis. 

He  sat  on,  waiting  until  the  storm  was  over. 

The  tremors  of  the  slight  form  that  lay  against  his  heart, 
so  helpless  yet  so  anxious  not  to  do  wrong,  struck  through 
the  fire  and  passion  in  the  man,  to  what  lay  beneath — true 
love  and  protection. 

Presently  he  kissed  the  strained,  tear-stained  face  pil- 
lowed against  his  shoulder. 

"It's  like  old  times  to  be  sitting  in  the  moonlight  and 
among  the  roses,  with  you  in  my  arms,"  he  said,  all  at  once. 

"Do  you  remember,  Pansy,  that  sweet  night  in  Grand 
Canary?  But  you  were  not  weeping  then.  Why  are  you 
now,  my  little  slave?  Because  a  Sultan  loves  you  more 
than  his  life  ?  More  than  anything  that  has  been  in  his  life. 
You're  not  very  flattering.  But  then,  you  never  were." 

He  paused  for  a  moment,  watching  her  tenderly. 

"Yet  you  paid  me  the  greatest  compliment  I  ever  had 
in  my  life.  When  you  said  you  loved  me.  There  could  be 
no  sweeter  music  that  those  words.  And  the  choicest  gift 
life  has  ever  given  me  was  a  kiss  from  your  lips,  given 
willingly." 

He  bent  his  head. 

"Won't  you  give  me  another,  Pansy?" 

But  the  girl's  strained  face  was  turned  away  from  the 
proud,  passionate  one  so  close  to  her  own. 

"No,  my  little  flower?    Will  you  make  a  thief  of  your 


286  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA 

Sultan?  Will  you  give  him  nothing  willingly  now?  I 
know  I  don't  deserve  it.  But  still — I  want  it.  And  my 
wants  have  been  my  only  law  so  far." 

Again  he  paused,  stroking  her  curls  with  a  loving  hand. 

"Just  now,  as  man  and  woman  together,  Pansy,  I  know 
I  don't  deserve  you.  I  know  I'm  not  worthy  of  you.  But 
I  want  my  soul,  although  I've  only  a  blackened  body  to 
offer  it.  And  the  soul  will  have  to  do  the  best  it  can  with 
the  grimy  accommodation.  For  I  must  have  you,  my 
darling.  You've  taken  everything  out  of  my  life,  but  a  de- 
sire for  you." 

From  a  tangle  of  trees  in  an  adjacent  garden  a  nightin- 
gale burst  into  song,  filling  the  night  with  liquid  melody. 
At  the  sound  the  Sultan's  arms  tightened  around  the  slender 
figure  he  held. 

"No  man  appreciates  virtue  so  much  as  the  one  who 
has  had  his  fill  of  vice,"  he  continued  presently.  "And  I 
was  born  into  it,  steeped  and  sodden  in  it  from  my  earliest 
recollection,  until  I  didn't  realise  it  was  vice  until  I  met 
you.  And  then  it  seemed  to  me  I  had  run  off  the  lines, 
and  pretty  badly." 

As  he  sat  talking  and  caressing  her,  Pansy's  sobs  died 
down.  There  was  always  magic  in  his  touch,  happiness 
within  his  arms.  With  throbbing  heart  she  lay  against  him, 
watching  him  anxiously. 

He  smiled  into  the  tired,  purple  eyes. 

"No,  perhaps,  I  won't  be  a  thief,"  he  said.  "Perhaps 
I  shall  climb  up  and  up  with  many  a  stumble  to  the  clear 
heights  where  you  are,  my  darling.  What  would  you  say 
if  you  saw  me  there?  'Here  is  a  poor  wretch  who  has 
climbed  painfully  upwards  to  touch  the  feet  of  his  ideal,' 
you  would  say  to  yourself.  And  to  me  you  would  say, 
'As  a  reward,  will  you  come  and  have  breakfast  with  me?' 
And  I  should  come,  like  a  shot.  And  I  should  want  lunch 
and  tea  and  dinner  and — you.  Just  you,  my  soul,  always 
and  for  ever." 

After  this  outburst,  he  was  quiet. 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA  287 

Passive  within  his  arms  Pansy  waited  for  the  last  hope- 
less struggle  for  right  against  wrong. 

He  sat  on,  as  if  at  peace  with  himself  and  the  world. 
The  restless  look  that  always  lurked  in  his  eyes  had  gone; 
in  its  place  was  one  of  happiness  and  contentment. 

Pansy's  shivers  roused  him  from  his  reverie.  Not  shivers 
of  fear,  but  of  chilliness.  A  heavy  dew  had  started  falling, 
bringing  a  sudden  coolness  into  the  night. 

"Why,  Heart's  Ease,"  he  said,  full  of  concern.  "I'm 
keeping  you  out  here  when  you  ought  to  be  indoors.  But 
with  you  in  my  arms,  I  forget  everything  but  you." 

Getting  to  his  feet,  he  took  her  back  to  the  gilded  room. 
The  lamps  had  burnt  out.  It  was  a  place  of  deep  shadows, 
and  here  and  there  the  silver  of  the  moon  patched  its  golden 
richness. 

Once  within  its  dimness  Pansy  started  struggling  again. 

He  took  the  slim  white  hands  into  one  of  his  own,  and 
kissed  them. 

"There's  no  need  for  you  to  fight  against  me  with  weak 
little  hands,"  he  whispered.  "There's  another  fighting  for 
you,  far  stronger  than  you  are.  A  new  Raoul  Le  Breton  of 
your  making  Pansy.  A  man  strong  enough  to  wait  until 
we're  really  married." 

Laying  his  burden  on  a  couch,  he  bent  his  head  until  his 
ear  almost  touched  the  girl's  lips. 

"Say  'Yes,'  Pansy,  and  I'll  go,  'nicely  and  quietly  like 
a  good  boy,'  still  remembering  'your  reputation/"  he  said 
in  a  teasing  tone. 

Into  his  ear  "Yea"  trembled. 

He  kissed  the  lips  that  at  last  had  consented  to  his 
rrishes. 

"Good  night,  my  little  girl,  and  if  you  go  on  at  this 
rate  you'll  make  a  white  man  of  me  yet." 

Long  after  he  had  gone  Pansy  stayed  brooding  on.  his 
words.  The  battle  between  them  was  over  at  last. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

ON  one  of  the  terraces  of  his  palace  the  Sultan  sat  at 
breakfast.  As  he  lingered  in  the  sweet  cool  air  of  early 
morning,  he  pondered  on  the  happenings  of  the  night  before. 

At  last  he  had  wrung  a  reluctant  consent  from  his  cher- 
ished prisoner. 

There  was  a  flaw  in  his  victory  that  he  tried  not  to  see. 
That  "Yes"  would  not  have  come  except  that  the  girl  had 
been  absolutely  cornered.  The  word  had  not  come  from 
her  lips  spontaneously  as  those  three  words,  "I  love  you," 
had. 

He  tried  to  forget  this  fact,  as  he  thought  out  the  best 
means  of  bringing  about  a  speedy  wedding. 

There  was  no  minister  of  her  faith  in  El-Ammeh.  The 
nearest  Christian  Mission  lay  at  least  two  hundred  miles 
distant.  It  would  be  risky  work  bringing  a  white  missionary 
to  his  city.  The  safest  course  would  be  to  take  her  down 
to  a  mission  station  and  marry  her  there.  No  one  would 
know  then  where  they  had  come  from.  And  the  journey 
back  would  make  a  delightful  honeymoon. 

On  the  delights  of  that  honeymoon  he  pondered. 

From  his  reverie  he  was  rudely  aroused  by  a  sound  which 
made  marriage  seem  very  remote,  and  death  much  more 
likely  to  be  his  portion. 

There  was  a  sudden  shriek  high  above  the  city,  followed 
by  a  deafening  roar,  as  a  shell  exploded  over  El-Ammeh — 
a  command  for  its  surrender. 

The  Sultan  started  to  his  feet,  his  face  reckless  and 
savage.  The  cup  was  at  his  lips  only  to  be  dashed  away. 

He  knew  what  had  happened. 

Somehow  or  other  the  French  Government  must  have 
heard  that  he  was  responsible  for  the  capture  of  the  English 

288 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA  289 

Governor ;  and  an  expedition  had  been  sent  up  to  punish  him 
for  his  marauding  ways. 

That  same  death-dealing  sound  startled  Pansy  as  she 
stood  by  the  sunken  pond  in  the  rose  garden,  feeding  the 
carp.  Wondering  what  had  happened,  she  looked  up  at  the 
smoke  that  lay  like  a  little  cloud  between  the  city  and  the 
sky. 

She  did  not  wonder  for  very  long. 

Present  another  shell  came  shrieking  out  of  the  distance. 

Then  she  guessed  what  had  occurred,  and  her  face 
blanched. 

Swiftly  she  went  to  her  room;  her  only  idea  to  reach  the 
Sultan  and  save  him  from  his  enemies. 

But  all  the  doors  of  her  prison  were  locked,  and  neither 
knocks  nor  shouts  produced  any  answer. 

She  went  back  to  the  fretted  gallery,  to  see  what  could  be 
seen  from  there. 

A  mile  or  so  away,  like  a  dark  snake  on  the  desert,  she 
eaw  the  relief  party.  As  she  watched,  a  white-robed  force 
left  El-Ammeh;  an  array  of  Arab  soldiers.  On  recognising 
their  leader,  her  soul  went  sick  within  her. 

He  was  there.  Her  lover.  The  man  she  ought  to  hate. 
Going  out  to  fight  the  men  who  had  come  to  her  rescue. 

If  the  French  officers  heading  the  expeditionary  force 
imagined  the  Sultan  of  El-Ammeh  had  come  out  to  surrender, 
they  quickly  discovered  their  mistake. 

He  had  come  out  to  fight;  and  what  was  more,  fight  well 
and  recklessly  against  a  force  that,  if  inferior  in  numbers, 
was  vastly  superior  in  arms. 

Presently  the  shells  no  longer  shrieked  above  El-Ammeh. 
They  were  aimed  at  it. 

From  her  gallery  Pansy  saw  the  two  forces  meet. 

Then  she  could  look  no  longer.  Men  fell  in  the  sand  and 
rose  no  more.  And  any  one  of  them  might  be  her  lover. 

She  went  back  to  her  room  and  crouched  there  in  terror; 
her  father  and  friends  all  forgotten  at  the  thought  of  the 
man  who  might  be  lying  dead  in  the  sand. 


290  A  SON  OP  THE  SAHAKA 

As  the  morning  wore  on,  the  din  of  battle  grew  nearer. 
Every  now  and  again  a  shell  got  home.  There  were  screams 
of  terrified  people;  the  heavy  fall  of  masonry;  the  moans 
and  cries  of  the  injured. 

Once  Pansy  thought  her  end  had  come. 

A  shell  struck  the  palace.  The  place  rocked  to  its  founda- 
tions. There  was  the  thunder  of  falling  masonry  as  if  the 
four  walls  of  her  room  were  crashing  down  upon  her. 

She  closed  her  eyes  and  waited. 

A  few  moments  later  she  opened  them,  and  was  sur- 
prised to  find  her  gilded  prison  very  little  damaged.  It 
was  badly  cracked,  and  several  blocks  of  stone  had  crashed 
down  from  the  ceiling,  one  on  the  sandalwood  bureau  near 
where  she  crouched,  smashing  it  to  splinters  and  scattering 
the  contents  about  her  feet. 

More  than  once  Pansy  had  rummaged  in  its  scented  re- 
cesses, until  she  knew  its  contents  by  heart.  She  had  found 
nothing  but  a  few  quills,  sheets  of  paper  yellow  with  age, 
and  quaint,  cut-crystal  bottles  in  which  the  coloured  inks 
had  dried.  She  knew  the  desk  had  belonged  to  the  Sultan's 
mother.  Just  as  she  knew  the  gilded  room  had  been  the 
French  girl's  prison. 

As  she  gazed  at  the  debris  at  her  feet,  it  seemed  she  could 
not  have  searched  thoroughly.  Among  the  splinters  was 
something  she  had  not  seen  before.  A  few  sheets  of  paper 
folded  flat  and  tied  with  a  strand  of  silk,  that  must  have 
been  hidden  behind  one  of  the  many  drawers. 

More  to  get  her  thoughts  away  from  the  battle  raging 
round  her  than  anything  else,  Pansy  picked  up  the  tiny 
packet.  Untying  the  silk,  she  opened  the  faded,  scented 
sheets  and  glanced  at  them. 

After  the  first  glance,  she  stayed  riveted.  And  as  she 
read  on,  she  forgot  everything  except  what  the  letter  said. 

It  was  in  French,  in  a  woman's  hand,  and  the  date  was 
now  more  than  twenty  years  old;  a  statement  written  by 
Annette  Le  Breton  before  she  died,  proclaiming  her  son's 
real  identity,  and  left  by  her  in  the  bureau.  Some  servant 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAEA  291 

rummaging  in  the  desk  for  trinkets,  after  her  mistress's 
death,  must  have  let  it  slip  behind  one  of  the  numerous 
drawers. 

Pansy  read  of  Colonel  Raoul  Le  Breton's  ill-fated  expedi- 
tion to  the  north-east;  how  he  and  his  little  force  had 
been  murdered  by  the  Sultan  Casim  Ammeh.  She  learnt 
of  Annette  Le  Breton's  fate  at  the  hands  of  her  savage 
captor.  Of  the  son  who  had  come  nearly  nine  months  after 
her  husband's  death — the  son  the  Sultan  Casim  Ammeh 
imagined  to  be  his. 

"Raoul  is  not  the  son  of  the  Sultan  Casim  Ammeh/' 
the  faint  handwriting  declared.  "He  is  the  son  of  my 
murdered  husband,  Colonel  Raoul  Le  Breton.  I  know,  for 
every  day  he  grows  more  like  his  dear,  dead  father.  Yet 
he  imagines  the  Sultan  to  be  his  father.  And  I  dare  not 
tell  him  the  truth.  For  if  the  Sultan  learnt  the  boy  was  not 
his,  he  would  kill  him.  For  Raoul's  sake  I  must  let  the 
deception  go  on.  For  the  sake  of  my  son  who  is  all  I  have 
to  live  for.  And  my  heart  breaks,  for  daily  my  boy  grows 
more  and  more  to  love  that  savage  chief  who  murdered  his 
real  father." 

Pansy  read  of  Annette's  dreary  years  in  the  harem  of 
her  captor. 

"Years  that  have  no  light  in  them,  save  my  son.  Years 
that  I  should  not  have  endured  except  for  my  child,  my  boy, 
the  son  of  my  brave  Raoul." 

It  was  a  heart-breaking  story  of  love  and  sacrifice,  of  a 
mother  tortured  to  save  her  child  from  the  fate  that  had 
befallen  his  father. 

"The  Sultan  will  make  my  boy  like  himself,"  the  letter 
went  on.  "For  there  is  no  one  at  hand  to  stop  him.  Daily 
my  influence  grows  less,  and  his  stronger.  The  boy  admires 
and  copies  the  man  he  deems  his  father.  He  is  too  young 
to  know  the  Sultan  for  what  he  really  is.  He  sees  only  a 


292  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA 

man,  bold  and  picturesque.  And  the  Sultan  spoils  him 
utterly,  he  encourages  him  to  be  cruel  and  arrogant,  he 
fosters  all  that  is  bad  in  the  boy.  It  is  useless  for  me  to 
try  and  check  him,  for  my  own  son  laughs  at  me  now." 

The  writing  grew  more  feeble  as  the  letter  went  on; 
the  wild  entreaty  of  a  mother  who  had  no  life  outside  of 
her  son,  and  who  saw  him  being  ruined  by  his  own  father's 
murderer. 

"Whoever  finds  this  be  kind  to  my  boy,  my  Raoul,  for 
the  sake  of  a  woman  who  has  suffered  much,  for  the  sake 
of  his  martyred  father,  Colonel  Raoul  Le  Breton.  Do  not 
judge  my  son  by  what  he  is,  but  by  what  he  might  have 
been.  In  the  Sultan  Casim  he  has  a  bad  example,  a  savage 
teacher,  a  wild,  profligate,  cruel  man,  who  would  make  the 
boy  as  barbarous  as  he  is  himself." 

The  writing  grew  even  more  feeble,  a  faint  scrawl  on 
the  yellow  paper. 

"I  am  dying,  and  my  son  is  far  away.  I  shall  not  live 
until  my  boy  returns.  And  he  will  be  left  with  no  influence 
but  the  Sultan's.  0  Fate,  deal  kindly  with  my  boy,  my 
Raoul,  left  alone  with  savages  in  this  barbaric  city.  I  have 
only  endured  these  dreadful  years  for  the  sake  of  my  son. 
In  the  name  of  pity  be  kind  to  him.  He  will  have  no 
chance  in  the  hands  of  his  present  teacher.  Have  mercy  for 
the  sake  of  his  tortured  mother,  and  his  father,  that  brave 
soldier  who  gave  his  life  for  France. 

ANNETTE  LE  BRETON." 

Pansy  read  the  sheets  through  without  once  raising  her 
eyes.  She  was  ravenous  for  the  contents. 

At  that  moment  it  seemed  as  if  the  dim,  gilded  room 
were  full  of  tears  and  sorrows;  the  faint,  sweet  fragrance 
of  the  girl  who  had  lived  there  long  years  ago,  suffering  and 
enduring  for  the  sake  of  her  boy. 


293 

It  was  not  in  Pansy's  kind  heart  to  refuse  that  tragic 
mother  pleading  for  her  son. 

Then  she  remembered  that  Colonel  Le  Breton's  son  was 
out  there  fighting  against  his  own  people.  If,  indeed,  he 
were  still  left  alive  to  fight. 

Her  lips  moved  in  silent  prayer. 

She  kissed  the  faded,  scented  sheets  and  tucked  them 
against  her  heart.  She  was  not  going  to  fail  Annette.  All 
she  wanted  now  was  to  be  at  the  side  of  the  dead  girl's 
son,  to  help  him  to  build  up  a  new  character  according  to 
the  best  white  codes  and  standards. 

Then  she  sat  on,  listening  to  the  battle  that  raged  around 
the  desert  city. 

If  Raoul  Le  Breton  were  spared,  there  was  another  battle 
before  her — a  battle  with  two  governments  for  his  life. 
But  she  had  not  many  qualms  about  the  result,  with 
Annette's  letter,  her  own  wealth,  and  her  father  on  her  side; 
as  he  would  be,  once  she  had  explained  the  situation. 

Morning  dragged  on  into  afternoon,  and  the  sound  of  the 
conflict  died  down  somewhat. 

All  at  once,  as  if  muffled  by  distance,  she  heard  her  lover's 
voice  calling  hoarsely: 

"Pansy." 

She  started  to  her  feet. 

Before  she  could  answer,  there  was  a  sound  of  fighting 
just  beyond  her  quarters. 

Then  she  heard  her  father's  voice,  strained  and  anxious: 

"Pansy,  are  you  in  there?" 

"Oh,  father,"  she  called  back  frantically.  "Don't  let 
them  kill  the  Sultan." 

There  came  more  muffled  voices.  Then  the  sound  of 
masonry  being  shifted,  as  the  men  outside  her  prison  started 
clearing  away  the  debris  that  blocked  the  door. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

EVENING  shadows  were  settling  over  El-Ammeh;  deep,  grey 
shadows  that,  for  all  their  gloomy  darkness,  were  not  as 
dark  and  gloomy  as  the  thoughts  of  a  man  who  was  a 
prisoner  in  one  of  the  rooms  of  his  own  palace. 

Against  a  fluted  column  the  Sultan  stood  watching  night 
settle  on  the  lake;  a  night  that  would  soon  settle  on  him 
for  ever. 

The  day  had  gone  against  him.  Outmatched,  he  had  been 
driven  back  to  his  city  walls.  Even  then  he  could  have 
escaped  with  a  handful  of  his  following,  and  have  started 
life  afresh  as  a  desert  marauder,  but  there  was  one  treasure 
in  his  palace — the  greatest  treasure  of  his  life — that  he 
wanted  to  take  with  him.  In  a  vain  effort  to  secure  Pansy 
before  he  fled,  he  had  been  captured. 

With  his  enemies  close  at  his  heels,  he  had  made  a  dash 
for  the  palace,  to  fetch  the  girl.  On  arriving  outside  of  her 
prison,  he  found  a  fall  of  masonry  had  blocked  the  doorway. 
Before  he  could  retrace  his  steps  and  try  another  entrance, 
his  pursuers  were  upon  him. 

The  French  were  already  in  possession  of  that  part  of  the 
city  where  the  Englishmen  had  been  imprisoned.  Immedi- 
ately they  were  released,  Sir  George  Barclay  and  his  officers, 
supplemented  by  a  few  Senegalese  soldiers,  had  gone  hot- 
foot to  the  palace,  to  Pansy's  rescue. 

There  they  had  found  the  Sultan.  A  brief  struggle 
against  overpowering  odds  ensued,  and  once  more  the  so- 
called  Casim  Ammeh  was  a  prisoner  in  the  hands  of  George 
Barclay. 

With  the  shadows  gathering  round  him,  the  Sultan  stood, 
in  white  burnoose,  a  bitter  expression  on  his  arrogant  face. 

He  had  nothing  now,  neither  wealth,  nor  power,  nor  his 

294 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHARA  295 

kingdom,  nor  the  girl  he  had  risked  all  for  in  a  vain  at- 
tempt to  win.  To-morrow  he  would  have  even  less. 

There  was  short  shrift  for  such  as  he.  To-morrow  his 
life  would  have  been  taken  from  him.  A  life  that  had 
become  empty  as  he  had  grown  older  and  pleasures  palled, 
until  Pansy  had  come  into  it,  filling  it  with  freshness  and 
innocence. 

The  battle  between  them  was  over  at  last.  Death  would 
end  it.  His  death. 

A  European  entered.  A  man  he  knew.  George  Barclay. 
The  man  he  hated  more  than  ever;  the  man  responsible 
for  his  capture. 

Barclay  ordered  one  of  the  soldiers  to  light  the  lamp. 
Then  he  dismissed  his  escort. 

There  were  half  a  dozen  Senegalese  soldiers  mounting 
guard  over  the  Sultan.  The  Englishman  dismissed  them 
also,  leaving  himself  alone  with  the  prisoner. 

"You're  doing  a  bold  thing,  Barclay,  leaving  the  two 
of  us  together  like  this,"  the  Sultan  remarked.  "It  will 
give  me  great  pleasure  to  wring  your  neck,  before  I'm  sent 
the  way  of  my  father." 

As  if  to  carry  out  this  design,  he  took  a  step  towards  the 
Governor. 

From  his  pocket,  Barclay  drew  out  a  few  sheets  of  faded, 
scented  paper. 

"Head  this,"  he  said  quietly,  handing  them  to  the 
prisoner. 

With  some  surprise,  the  Sultan  took  them. 

On  opening  the  letter,  he  started,  for  he  recognised  his 
mother's  writing. 

As  he  read  on,  his  bronzed  face  whitened,  and  a  dazed 
look  came  to  his  eyes,  like  a  man  reeling  under  a  tremen- 
dous blow. 

In  a  critical,  but  not  unfriendly  manner,  Barclay  studied 
his  companion.  He  knew  now  why  the  Sultan  of  El-Ammeh 
differed  so  in  appearance  from  the  wild  people  he  ruled. 

On  reaching  Pansy,  he  had  had  Annette  Le  Breton's  letter 


I 

296  A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAEA 

thrust  into  his  hands.  His  daughter  had  had  no  greeting 
for  him,  only  wild  entreaties  for  him  to  save  the  Sultan. 
When  Barclay  read  the  tragic  confession  he  was  quite  ready 
to  do  his  best. 

Then  Pansy  had  told  him  more. 

How  Kaoul  Le  Breton  was  the  man  she  loved.  But  she 
did  not  say  that  Lucille  Lemesurier  was  responsible  for  their 
parting.  She  led  her  father  to  believe  that  the  discovery 
of  the  supposed  black  blood  in  her  lover  had  been  her 
"hole  in  the  floor  of  heaven." 

Barclay  did  not  trouble  his  daughter  with  many  questions. 
It  was  enough  that  she  was  safe.  What  was  more,  he  knew 
she  would  marry  the  man  of  her  choice,  no  matter  what 
obstacles  were  put  in  her  way,  as  the  first  Pansy  had  mar- 
ried him — with  the  world  against  her. 

All  he  wanted  now  was  to  save  the  man  his  daughter 
had  set  her  heart  on;  that  death  should  not  blight  her  life 
as  it  had  blighted  his. 

WTien  the  conflict  was  over,  and  the  French  and  English 
officers  met  again,  Barclay  had  shown  the  letter  to  the 
commander  of  the  expeditionary  force — the  man  who  held 
the  Sultan's  life  in  his  hand. 

The  officer  had  read  Annette  Le  Breton's  statement 
through  in  silence.  Considering  the  contents,  it  did  not 
need  Pansy's  lovely,  anxious  face  or  her  father's  pleadings 
to  make  him  promise  them  life  and  liberty  for  Colonel  Le 
Breton's  son.  More  he  could  not  promise.  The  two  gov- 
ernments would  want  an  indemnity  that  would  swallow  up 
most  of  the  kingdom  of  El-Ammeh. 

But  his  life  was  all  Pansy  wanted. 

His  life,  and  to  be  at  his  side  when  the  blow  fell.  For  a 
blow  it  was  bound  to  be,  to  a  man  as  proud  and  fierce  as 
her  lover.  A  shock  and  then  a  relief. 

As  Eaoul  Le  Breton  read  the  letter,  his  old  world  crashed 
in  ruins  about  him. 

Now  he  understood  his  dead  mother's  hatred  of  the 
Sultan  Casim.  Her  endeavours  to  mould  him  on  European 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAEA  29T 

lines.  Her  pleadings  and  entreaties  for  him  not  to  forget 
the  white  side.  That  poor,  frail,  tortured  little  mother  who 
had  suffered  so  much  for  his  sake! 

His  hand  went  across  his  anguished  face. 

He  had  not  forgotten  the  white  side.  He  had  done 
worse.  He  had  just  ignored  it.  Knowing  good,  he  had 
preferred  evil.  He  had  gone  his  way  as  barbaric  and  licen- 
tious as  the  savage  who  had  murdered  his  father. 

AVith  tortured  eyes  he  glanced  at  Barclay. 

This  man  whom  he  had  hated  so  bitterly  for  sixteen 
years  and  more  was  his  best  friend,  not  his  enemy.  For 
Barclay  had  shot  the  savage  chief  who  had  murdered  his 
father  and  outraged  his  mother. 

Like  a  whisper  through  the  chaos  surrounding  him,  Le 
Breton  heard  Barclay  talking,  telling  him  Pansy  had  found 
the  letter.  On  account  of  its  contents  the  French  com- 
mander was  not  going  to  push  the  case  against  him.  He 
would  be  given  his  life  and  freedom,  but  an  indemnity 
would  have  to  be  paid,  and  the  price  would  leave  him  only 
a  shadow  of  his  wealth. 

Le  Breton  knew  that  again  Pansy  had  saved  his  worth- 
less life.  For  worthless  it  seemed,  judging  from  his  new 
standpoint. 

"I  owe  you  thanks,  not  hatred/'  he  said  to  Barclay,  his 
voice  hoarse  with  suffering. 

"And  I  owe  you  thanks  too,"  the  governor  replied. 
"My  daughter  tells  me  you  treated  her  with  every  kindness 
and  consideration." 

It  seemed  to  Le  Breton  that  he  had  been  anything  but 
kind  and  considerate;  that  no  woman  could  forgive  such 
dealings  as  his  had  been  with  her. 

He  had  taken  a  girl  used  to  a  free  and  active  life  and  had 
shut  her  up  in  a  scented,  sensual  prison,  trying  to  make  her 
fall  a  victim  to  himself  and  her  own  senses;  until  she  had 
grown  morbid  and  hysterical,  seeking  death  in  preference 
to  himself  and  the  sort  of  life  he  had  forced  her  to  lead. 

"I  don't  know  that  I  should  call  myself  exactly  kind  or 


298  A  SON  OP  THE  SAHAEA 

considerate  to  your  daughter/'  he  remarked.  "Not  after 
reading  this  letter.  Or  to  you  either,"  he  finished. 

"I  wouldn't  worry  too  much  about  the  past,  if  I  were 
you,"  Barclay  replied.  "You've  plenty  of  time  ahead  of 
you  to  'make  good'  in." 

Le  Breton  said  nothing.  He  stayed  brooding  on  the  ruins 
around  him,  hating  himself  and  the  savage  chief  who  had 
been  his  teacher. 

All  his  old  world  had  been  swept  away  from  him.  Lost 
and  alone,  he  would  have  to  start  afresh,  according  to  new 
lights  and  new  ideals,  and  without  a  hand  to  guide  him. 

He  had  nothing,  neither  wealth  nor  kingdom.  Not  his 
pride  even.  Unknowingly  he  had  been  a  renegade,  fighting 
against  his  own  nation. 

He  was  utterly  broken.  But  he  did  not  look  it — only 
unutterably  dreary. 

As  he  pondered  on  his  past  life,  he  realised  to  the  fullest 
what  he  must  look  like  to  Pansy.  No  wonder  she  had 
fought  against  her  love  for  him!  Any  decent  woman 
would. 

He  did  not  hear  Barclay  go,  leaving  him  alone  with  his 
thoughts  and  the  deepening  shadows.  He  was  aware  of 
nothing  except  his  own  wild  career,  and  how  he  had  run 
foul  of  all  white  ideals. 

The  door  opened,  but  he  did  not  hear  that  either.  He 
was  too  full  of  suffering  and  repentance. 

Then  another  whisper  penetrated  the  whirl  in  which  he 
moved. 

"Baoul,"  a  girl's  voice  said  gently. 

He  looked  at  Pansy  as  a  man  dying  of  thirst  in  a  desert 
would  look  at  a  mirage  of  lakes  and  fountains — a  vision  of 
torturing  desire  that  he  knew  was  not  for  him. 

No  apologies  could  condone  for  his  behaviour.  Love  he 
dared  not  mention;  not  with  a  past  like  his;  not  to  this 
innocent,  high-principled  girl. 

Pansy  came  to  his  side. 


A  SON  OF  THE  SAHAEA  299 

"Stoop  down  a  bit,  Kaoul,"  she  said.  "I  want  to  say 
something." 

He  bent  his  dark  head. 

Into  his  ear  "I  love  you"  was  whispered  shyly,  as  it  had 
been  that  night  months  ago  in  a  moonlit  garden  in  Grand 
Canary. 

At  her  whispered  words  his  face  started  working  strangely. 

"I  don't  deserve  such  love,  such  forgiveness,"  he  said  in 
a  broken  voice. 

She  laughed — the  laughter  that  kept  tears  at  bay — and 
slipping  her  arms  about  his  neck,  tip-toed,  and  kissed  the  lips 
that  dared  not  touch  her  now. 

"And  I  want  to  marry  you  at  once.  I  want  to  be  with 
you  always." 

At  her  words  his  arms  went  round  her  in  their  old 
possessive  manner. 

Then  he  remembered  that  all  his  wealth  had  been  swept 
from  him;  that  now  he  had  the  girl,  he  had  nothing  left 
to  give  her. 

"I've  nothing  to  offer  you,"  he  said,  his  voice  bitter, 
"except  a  love  that's  not  worth  having." 

With  soft,  gentle  hands  Pansy  stroked  the  lines  of  bitter- 
ness from  the  proud  face  that  watched  her  with  such  love 
and  longing. 

"You  can  have  all  that's  mine.  I  don't  want  anything 
but  you." 

He  kissed  the  lips  that  were  held  up  to  his  so  willingly. 

"My  darling,  help  me  to  grope  back  to  your  white  ways," 
he  said,  his  voice  hoarse  with  emotion. 

"You  won't  have  to  grope.  You  got  there  last  night  when 
you  'remembered  my  reputation'  and  'went  nicely  and  quietly 
like  a  good  boy.'" 

He  laughed,  but  there  was  a  alight  catch  in  his  laughter, 
and  pressed  the  girl  closer  to  the  heart  she  could  always  ease. 

There  were  no  shadows  now,  no  ruins.  For  the  greatest 
treasure  of  his  life  was  left  to  him. 

THE  END. 


Another   tremendous   success   by 
the  author  of  "DESERT  LOVE" 

THE  HAWK  OF  EGYPT 

Joan  Conquest's  exotic  story  of  the  love-madness 
with  which  mysterious  Egypt  drugs  the  souls  of 
men  and  women, 

Its  realism  will 
thrill  you 

You  will  see: 

Cairo,  the  native  quarter,  the  bazaars,  the  naming 
desert,  the  love  tryst  in  the  temple  of  Ammon, 
Zulannah,  the  dancing  girl — the  jewelled  siren  of 
the  Nile,  Damans,  the  beautiful  English  heroine, 
Kelham,  the  lion  hunter  and  Hugh  Garden  Ali, 
the  man  who  sold  his  life  for 

One  Hour  of  Love 


Here  are  two  pages  selected  at  random  from 

THE  HAWK  OF  EGYPT 
a  love  story  -without  asterisks 


DAMARIS  bowed  her  head  so  that  the  curls 
danced  and  glistened  in  the  light,  as  the  tor- 
rent of  his  words,  in  the  Egyptian  tongue, 
swept  about  her  like  a  flood. 

"Hast  thou  come  to  me  in  love,  thou  dove  from  the 
nest?  Nay,  what  knowest  thou  of  love?  I  ask  it  not 
of  thee — yet — but  the  seed  I  siiall  plant  within  thee 
shall  grow  in  the  passing  of  the  days  and  the  nights  and 
the  months  and  the  years,  until  it  is  as  a  grove  of 
perfumed  flowers  which  shall  change  to  golden  fruit 
ready  to  the  plucking  of  my  hand." 

He  pressed  her  little  hands  back  against  her  breast  so 
that  the  light  fell  full  upon  her  face,  and  he  held  her 
thuswise,  watching  the  colour  rise  and  fade. 

"Allah!"  he  whispered.  "Allah!  God  of  all,  what 
have  I  done  to  deserve  such  signs  of  Thy  great  good-" 
ness?  Wilt  thou  love  me?"  He  laughed  gently.  "Canst 
thou  look  into  mine  eyes  and  shake  thy  golden  head 
which  shall  be  pillowed  upon  my  heart — my  wife — the 
mother  of  my  children  ?  Look  at  me !  Look  at  me !  Ah ! 
thine  eyes,  which  were  as  the  pools  of  Lebanon  at  night, 
are  as  a  sun-kissed  sea  of  love.  Thou  know'st  it  not, 
but  love  is  within  thee — for  me,  thy  master." 

And  was  there  not  truth  in  what  he  said?  May  there 
hot  have  been  love  in  the  heart  of  the  girl? 

Not,  maybe,  the  love  which  stands  sweet  and  sturdy 
like  the  stocky  hyacinth,  to  bloom  afresh,  no  matter  how 
gften  the  flowers  be  struck,  or  the  leaves  be  bruised, 


THE  HAWK  OF  EGYPT 

from  the  humdrum  bulb  deep  in  the  soil  of  cornel  con- 
tent. But  the  God-given,  iridescent  love  of  youth  foi 
youth,  with  its  passion  so  swift,  so  sweet ;  a  love  like  tht 
rose-bud  which  hangs  half-closed  over  the  door  in  the 
dawn;  which  is  wide-flung  to  the  sun  at  noon;  which 
scatters  its  petals  at  dusk. 
The  rose ! 

She  has  filled  your  days  with  the  memory  of  her 
fragrance ;  her  leaves  still  scent  the  night  from  out  the 
sealed  crystal  vase  which  is  your  heart. 

But  an'  you  would  attain  the  priceless  boon  of  peace, 
see  to  it  that  a  humdrum  bulb  be  planted  in  the  brown 
flower-pot  which  is  your  home. 

And  because  of  this  God-given  love  of  youth  which 
was  causing  her  heart  to  thud  and  the  blood  to  race 
through  her  veins,  she  did  not  withdraw  her  hands  when 
he  held  and  kissed  them  and  pressed  his  forehead  upon 
them. 

"Lotus-flower,"  he  whispered  so  that  she  could 
scarcely  hear.  "Bud  of  innocence !  ivory  tower  of 
womanhood !  temple  of  love !  Beloved,  beloved,  I  am  at 
thy  feet."  And  he  knelt  and  kissed  the  little  feet  in  the 
heelless  little  slippers ;  then,  rising,  took  both  her  hands 
and  led  her  to  the  door;  and  his  eyes  were  filled  with  a 
great  sadness,  in  spite  of  the  joy  which  sang  in  hu 
heart  as  he  took  her  into  the  shelter  of  his  arms. 

"I  love  thee  too  well,"  he  said,  as  he  bent  and  kissed 
the  riotous  curls  so  near  his  mouth.  "Yes,  I  love  thet 
too  well  to  snatch  thee  even  as  a  hungry  dog  snatches 
his  food,  though,  verily,  I  be  more  near  to  starving  than 
any  hungry  dog.  What  dost  thou  know  of  love,  of  life, 
in  the  strange  countries  ?f  the  East?  For  thy  life  will 


They  Were  Alone  •  •  •  • 

The  magic  of  the  desert  night  had  closed  about 
them.  Cairo,  friends, — civilization  as  she  knew 
it — were  left  far  behind.  She,  an  unbeliever, 
was  in  the  heart  of  the  trackless  wastes  with  a 
man  whose  word  was  more  than  law. 

And  yet,  he  was  her  slave! 

"I  shall  ask  nothing  of  you  until  you  shall  love 
me,"  he  promised.  ''You  shall  draw  your  cur- 
tains, and  until  you  call,  you  shall  go  undis- 
turbed." 

And  she  believed  him! 

Do  you  want  to  see  luxury  beyond  your  imag- 
ination to  conjure, — feel  the  softness  of  silks 
finer  than  the  gossamer  web  of  the  spider — hear 
the  night  voices  of  the  throbbing  desert,  or  sway 
to  the  jolting  of  the  clanking  caravan? 

Egypt,  Arabia  pass  before  your  eyes.  The 
impatient  cursing  of  the  camel  men  comes  to 
your  ears.  Your  nostrils  quiver  in  the  acrid 
smoke  of  the  little  fires  of  dung  that  flare  in  the 
darkness  when  the  caravan  halts.  The  night  has 
shut  off  prying  eyes.  Yashmaks  are  lowered. 
White  flesh  gleams  against  burnished  bands  of 
gold.  The  children  of  Allah  are  at  home. 

And  the  promise  he  had  given  her?. .  .let  Joan 
Conquest,  who  knows  and  loves  the  East,  tell 
you  in 

DESERT  LOVE 

For  salf  wherever  books  are  sold>  or  from 

The  Macaulay  Company 

PUBLISHERS 
15-17  W.  38th  SL  New  York 


A  beautifully  illustrated   edition  of 

THREE  WEEKS 

The  Famous  Romantic  Novel 

By  Elinor  Glyn 

Now  ready  at  the  same  price  aa 
"Beyond  the  Rocks" 


The  world  has  felt  upon  its  hot  lips  the  perfumed  kisses 
of  the  beautiful  heroine  of  "Three  Weeks."  The  brilliant 
flame  that  was  her  life  has  blazed  a  path  into  every 
corner  of  the  globe.  It  is  a  world-renowned  novel  of 
consuming  emotion  that  has  made  the  name  of  its  author, 
Elinor  Glyn,  the  most  discussed  of  all  writers  of  modern 
fiction. 


WHAT  THE  CRITICS  HAVE  SAID 
ABOUT  IT 

Percival  Pollard  in  Town  Topics: 

"It  is  a  book  to  make  one  forget  that  the  world  is 
gray.  Be  as  sad,  as  sane  as  you  like,  for  all  the  other 
days  of  your  life,  but  steal  one  mad  day,  I  adjure  you, 
and  read  'Three  Weeks.'  " 

The  Western  Christian  Advocate: 

"The  power  and  beauty  of  its  descriptions  and  the 
pathos  of  its  scenes  are  undeniable." 

The  Brooklyn  Eagle: 

"A  cleverly  told  tale,  full  of  dainty  sentiment,  of 
poetic  dreaming  and  dramatic  incident." 

The  San  Francisco  Argonaut: 

"We  feel  inclined  to  throw  at  her  (the  heroine)  neither 
stones  nor  laurels,  but  rather  to  congratulate  the  author 
upon  a  powerful  story  that  lays  a  grip  upon  the  mind 
and  heart." 

The  Detroit  Free  Press: 

"No  wonder  that  'Three  Weeks'  is  one  of  the  best 
sellers." 


A  beautifully  illustrated  edition  of 

Beyond  the  Rocks 

By  Elinor  Glyn 

Now  ready  at  the  same  price  as 
"Three  Weeks" 

A  flaming  romance  as  only  the  author  of  "THREE 
WEEKS"  could  write  it;  as  only  Gloria  Swanson,  with 
dashing  Rodolph  Valentino  playing  the  lover,  could 
make  it  live  in  all  its  ardent  splendor. 
The  story  of  a  passionate  young  heart  bound  by 
society's  conventions,  struggling  and  risking  all  for 
happiness. 

— of  gay  nights  of  revelry  in  the  Parisian  world  of 
fashion. 

— of  intrigue  and  coquetry  in  the  gilded  resorts  of 
London  high  society. 

Never  before  have  such  dramatic  love-scenes,  such 
spectacular  adventure  been  placed  before  the  public. 
The  love-drama  with  all  the  thrills  and  luxury  of  a 
life- time!  The  one  book  and  picture  you'll  never  for- 
get! 


FAMOUS  NOVELS   BY 
VICTORIA   CROSS 

LIFE'S  SHOP  WINDOW 

It  tears  tbe  garments  of  conventionality  from  woman,  presenting  her 
as  she  must  appear  to  the  Divine  Eye. 

HILDA  AGAINST  THE  WORLD 

Fancy  a  married  man,  denied  divorce  by  law,  falling  desperately  in 
love  with  a  charming  maiden  waiting  for  love. 

A  GIRL  OF  THE  KLONDIKE 

A  stirring  story  of  love,  intrigue  and  adventure,  wove»  about  a 
proud,  reckless  heroine. 

SIX  WOMEN 

A  half-dozen  of  the  most  vivid  love  stories  that  ever  lit  up  tha 
dusk  of  a  tired  civilization. 

THE  NIGHT  OF  TEMPTATION 

The  self-sacrifice  of  woman  in  love.  Regina,  the  heroine,  gfi^es 
herself  to  a  man  for  his  own  sake.  The  world,  however,  exacts  a  severe 
price  for  her  unconventional  conduct. 

SIX  CHAPTERS  OF  A  MAN'S  LIFE 

A  bold,  brilliant,  defiant  presentation  of  the  relations  of  men  and 
women  who  find  themselves  in.  situations  never  before  conceived. 

TO-MORROW 

A  daring  innovation  of  great  strength  and  almost  photographic 
intensity,  that  appeals  to  the  lovers  of  sensational  fiction;  wise,  witty, 
yet  touchingly  pathetic. 

DAUGHTERS  OF  HEAVEN 

As  life  cannot  be  described,  but  must  be  liv«d,  so  this  book  cannot 
be  revealed — it  must  be  read.  Its  daring  situations  and  tense  moments 
will  thrill  you. 

OVER  LIFE'S  EDGE 

No  one  but  Victoria  Cross  could  have  written  this  thrilling  tale  of 
a  girl  who  left  the  gayeties  of  London  to  dwell  in  a  lonely  cavern  until 
the  man,  who  loved  her  with  the  passion  of  impetuous  youth,  found  her. 


A  beautifully  written  story,  full  of  life,  nature,  passion  and  pathos. 
The  weaknesses  of  a  proud,  cultured  woman  lead  to  a  strange  climax. 

THE  MACAULAY  COMPANY 
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